


Bare Necessities

by CaptainRumCake (FeyNWiddershins)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: AU mid-CA:TWS, Adult Language, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Implied other stuff, Routine, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-02-15 07:36:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 216,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2220924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeyNWiddershins/pseuds/CaptainRumCake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate course of events for CA:TWS: Following the showdown on the overpass, it is not Cap and Co. who are captured, but the Winter Soldier. The struggles that ensue center on saving Bucky Barnes as a human being, and as a friend. The gang insinuate themselves in civilian life and struggle to reintegrate a broken asset into the world. Inspired by Maslow's hierarchy of needs. </p><p>Romance-free but M for adult language and some references to psychological trauma. Multi-POV. Cameos by other Marvel characters here and there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. AIR

The past thirty-two hours or so had not been going well for Steve or Natasha, and frankly, they'd not made Sam's morning a walk in the park either. It hadn't truly been _bad_ though until the metal arm started dismantling the car. That was the turning-point from weird and exhausting to the blood-in-your-ears, forget-your-own-name, is-this _-Terminator_ kind of fucked up. Steve and Natasha didn't act that way, didn't even betray a hint of surprise or panic. They acted like it was just another Thursday, granted a trying Thursday, but a normal level of Thursday-ness. Sam knew better. This was some messed up shit and they were both scrambling to deal with it. Especially after they realized to what the arm belonged, or really, to who since this wasn't the _Terminator_. The same guy who'd shot their director dead. Not good.

 

Not good and they were only just handling it. That much he could see even from up there on the overpass. Somehow, while he'd been endlessly rolling, they'd both made it to the ground but neither were any better off for it. Natasha had the owner of the metal arm bearing down on her and, insanely, that was the better of two options. Steve, on the other hand, was being barraged by a friggin' machine gun and a band of additional pesky commandos, also packing way over-caliber arms. Sam knew he could help him, though, unlike Natasha, so, disarming one of the stragglers on the over pass he took out the machine-gunner because, obviously, that was tactically the best first target. With the guy with compensation issues put down and as Sam continued to pick off the pursuers, Steve bolted.

 

Despite the firestorm of ballistics, Steve had tucked behind his shield and assessed the situation. Sam was clear and back in the game even after the nasty tumble on the road. Natasha was more than capable but he was worried about her. For some reason the assassin, the Winter Soldier she'd called him, was targeting her. She'd just disarmed him temporarily, and quite literally, and was sprinting for cover. A good choice. In near-to-God perfect timing, Sam had just taken out the machine gunner and Steve was free to hurry to her aide. The Winter Soldier was still shaking off the effects of an EMP disc, and now was the prime opportunity to catch him off guard.

 

That was fairly easily done by bowling straight into him. Steve hit him at full gate, shield held in front of him to ensure the maximum effect of the body slam. And, did it have that effect. The assassin went flying, head first into the car across the street, crumpling it under him.

 

"Secure the perimeter!" Steve shouted quickly to Natasha, poised for the certain retaliation to follow. "Clear civilians," he just managed to add before the flash of silver alerted him to the gunfire to follow.

 

Ducking tightly behind the shield, Steve dodged and deflected all seven shots. He was even rewarded with a short breather when the last shot bounced back to clip the Winter Soldier beside his eye. It wasn't worth it.

 

Gun abandoned, Steve had to face the full brunt of that arm next. It wasn't any better. The impact, in fact, of it slamming into the shield was so hard and so loud Natasha stopped her evacuations and turned to check on Steve. He heard her sudden silence and, straining through holding the shield away from him, barked for her to stay back. The Winter Soldier noticed as well and almost landed a punch around the shield.

 

Steve was just able to parry and jostle him away long enough to dig his heels in and really shove back. Slightly off balance, the assassin stumbled and unsheathed a knife as he worked to find his footing again. That millisecond was all Steve needed, however, and he dropped his center a good six inches lower, dodged a crushing combo strike with iron fist and knife, and brought the shield hard up into the Winter Soldier's face, the force of his entire body behind it. Even rolling away, Steve could hear the crack of the facemask.

 

Natasha heard it, too. Evacuation was wasted on her, and the people didn't really need any spurring to clear the fuck out of the way of two men who hit hard enough to shake the ground. She whipped around and watched the battle royale for a moment, half-hidden behind a car. Natasha was quick. Quick in all the ways that mattered. Quick on her feet, quick to respond, quick-witted, quick and keen eyed, but even she, trained to see strikes before they fell, couldn't follow the blows traded between the two men.

 

Left, right, back, forward, she could hardly tell. It was too fast and it was too brutal. And unending: the barrage was unrelenting and left echoes like thunderclaps in the air. Parried, the strikes clattered and shrieked, but when they landed the sound was sickening, a dull thud, a crack like the one she'd just heard. This was a duel, plain and simple, and it was not of mortals. She kept her distance, kept hidden, and kept those other mortals far and away. That included Sam Wilson. Loyal puppy-dog that he was, the soldier came flying, literally, to the aide of his comrade at arms a few short seconds after Rogers cracked the Asset's muzzle. Natasha only barely waved him down from doom in time.

 

"What? Steve needs help."

 

Natasha shook her head hard and pointed down the opposing end of the street. "Not here. Go south, secure that end of the street, ward off civvies like I've been doing. No one needs to get caught up in that."

 

She nodded back to where fists were being exchanged faster than she could properly assess. Sam pursed his lips.

 

"Uh-uh. I don't like it, rumble like that needs a ref."

 

"Sure, but not you. Do you have titanium-enforced ribs? No? Then, maybe you don't want to get gut-punched by a man with super-strength and a metal arm. Come on."

 

She was right, Sam knew that. He wouldn't last a millisecond boxing one of them, but he didn't like leaving Steve high and dry. "We'll watch, then."

 

"Oh, we'll watch. And cover him if he needs it."

 

Sam glanced back as he jogged up the street. Even with the upper hand, Steve looked like he needed cover.

 

Completely unbalanced and reeling from the blow to his face, the Winter Soldier had landed hard after his legs were swept out from under him. That was no victory for Steve. It was barely a second before he was on his feet again, knife zinging for legs, and making him dodge and hop aside instead of delivering another echoing body slam. About eight swipes missed in a matter of seconds and Steve was sent flying, courtesy a none less powerful boot. He recovered, though, rolled onto his feet and managed to snap that knife in half with the edge of his shield against a car.

 

Hopefully, they had insurance. Steve shouldn't have been worried about. He should have been worried about the metal punch about to be delivered to his gut. It took the wind right out of him and left him staggering backwards and on the defensive, this time against knife number two. That one didn't last as long, but it wasn't the only thing stripped. Steve lost the shield in a swirling, flipping, blink-of-an-eye tour d'force. It almost took his head off a few times and he was left relying only on his speed and agility to evade the Winter Soldier's attacks. He matched pace for a while but the intensity didn't abate and, finally, it was too much. A kick found its target and sent Steve hurtling down the street. Landing with as much control as was possible in that situation, he flipped back upright and, not a second wasted, steam-rolled back at the Winter Soldier.

 

Shield ducked, Steve barreled towards him, who in turn propelled his whole body at Steve like a freight train. It was perfect, though, exactly what Steve needed. With all that power, his momentum was effortlessly used against him as Steve dropped a shoulder and flipped him over. The Winter Soldier landed in a roll and steadied in a crouch, managing a defensive elbow up into Steve's first punch. He couldn't, however, dodge the kick to the face that followed as Steve spun away with the force of the elbow block. The mask cracked apart completely as his face impacted with the concrete.

 

Steve's next blow, an overhand to the nose, lost steam then. It stuttered and erred just as he was about to bring his fist down and into Bucky Barnes's face. It was easily parried and Steve was kicked off, his opponent unfazed, standing and squaring up for another round.

 

Steve wasn't going to attack, though, wasn't even considering it. One thing was going through his mind.

 

"Bucky?"

 

His hair was long, his expression cold and empty, but there was no doubt that that was Steve's best friend, back from the dead. Or, at least partially.

 

The problem was, he didn't seem to know that. He paused and looked at Steve with an utter lack of recognition. Whatever had been clearing his face before of anything but ruthlessness faltered briefly. His brow pulled up for a split second and Steve recognized something like doubt around his friend's bearing.

 

"Who the hell is Bucky?"

 

The small, quietly uttered question struck Steve harder than any of the punches or kicks he'd suffered through before. It left him in nearly catatonic silence as Bucky, unwittingly, lunged at his friend, fist raised to break bones. That doubt was rejected with a vengeance and its little flicker only served to rouse his asset-worthy precision, relentlessness, and cold power to redoubled proportions. Steve was in shock. It was all he could do to keep his face intact, just barely ducking and side-stepping blow after crushing blow.

 

He could see his face now, and as much as this looked like his friend, something was missing. His eyes were hollow. He looked like he was in some kind of waking sleep. Except for how he could clearly see Steve, eyes dead and locked on him, unblinking and unwavering on their target. He didn't see Steve as Steve. He didn't know him. Even with all that cataloged, Steve was still in shock. He couldn't stop trying to call him back from wherever he was lost.

 

"Bucky! Bucky! It's me, it's Steve! Buck!"

 

The evasive dance continued, with him bellowing Bucky's name all the way, until he reach his shield where it had become lodged in the rear of a truck. With it back on his arm and some small measure of defense raised, Steve could stand his ground better. And plead more aggressively.

 

"Bucky! Bucky Barnes!"

 

He pushed away a punch to his face and shook Bucky by the shoulder, just to be shoved nine feet back. That didn't stop him though. Getting frustrated by Steve's apparent prattle or by his own mounting uncertainty and confusion, Bucky attacked with redoubled furor. Steve grunted through, kept calling his name, just in case. He could only take so much physically, though. Enough was enough when he felt the shield cutting into his forearm. Hurling Bucky bodily backwards with one last blow of it, Steve held it out front like a sign and roared for its meaning to be remembered.

 

"Damn it, Bucky! It's me! Steve! Snap out of it!"

 

Even skidding across asphalt on his backside, it looked like the whole of Bucky skipped in that moment, like something misfired. He blinked, eyes even bluer when opened wide. They danced across his field of vision, looking from Steve then off to some distant other. He considered that other for a moment, down and for once not trained on a target. As he did, it felt like the whole world stopped for hours.

 

That pause was exactly what Maria Hill had needed, too, that tiny moment of stillness to find her target. She was a good marksman, yes, but snipers weren't her usual range of firearm. This rouge assassin-asset bonanza had been on her to-do list for years. She was perfectly elated to have a reason to cross it off. Well, mostly. They _were_ tranq darts in the muzzle, not slugs, but still. Bringing him in would be good enough. The strike team had been easy picking, blind morons that they were, and setting up outside their perimeter was ideal for her. She already had two (and a half?) agents on site, the task left to her was logistical. Easy, especially now that she had no witnesses and no impending threats or interruptions. In reality, Romanoff and Rogers had done her job for her. She just had to squeeze this trigger ever so softly.

 

Her target was still transfixed. Bucky Barnes had been completely still for precisely two seconds, and for those two seconds it looked like he'd been fighting himself on something. That internal struggle had him turned inward, scared and conflicted. Steve wanted to help.

 

"I'm Steve, your friend," he offered quietly. "You've known me your whole life, remember?"

 

It was a nice gesture, a show of truce, stepping forward and lowering his shield, but in doing so Steve spooked Bucky. He started from his haunted abstraction into full-assassin mode and had a gun trained on Steve's forehead in an instant. That instant, however, was all it took for Hill to squeeze that trigger and unload three darts into Bucky's neck in quick succession. That final moment of doubt, of fear in Bucky's eyes saved Steve's life and froze there as Bucky flopped onto the ground. It also plagued Steve as he darted to his friend.

 

Was he about to remember? Did he remember and couldn't stop? Was he clueless but still afraid? None of the options were good. Nothing about this was good. Nothing, except for the fact that Bucky Barnes was alive, somewhere in there.

 

There had been surface noise around for some time now, Steve was sure of that, shouts, muffled yelps, slams and far-off silence, the symphony of panic. Just then, though, it was a vacuum. He heard two things, both pounding. His heart and his footfalls.

 

Whatever was in those darts, it was strong. Bucky, robo-arm and all, was as limp as a wet noodle as Steve shook him. He was only tranquilized, though, the pulse in his temple assured that. The air popped back like cotton balls falling from Steve's ears. The cacophonous sounds of emergencies fells back around him and Natasha's voice picked up mid-sentence.

 

"–to leave him. His reinforcements are closing in. The local authorities are in on it. We're out of ammo and we have to go. Rogers. Rogers? We have to go." She grabbed him arm and pulled but Steve wasn't budging.

 

"I'm not leaving him."

 

"What? Leave him? Escape him. I'm sorry we can't–"

 

Steve's face was shattered when he finally looked up at her. "I'm _not_ leaving him. I know him. He's my friend."

 

His eyes held hers as Natasha considered. She looked at the slack face of the man who'd almost killed them both and then simply nodded. If he was Steve's friend this was a moot point. He was coming with them.

 

"You can carry him, right?"

 

Just as Steve was carefully gathering this killer to his chest like a small lamb, a whistle ripped through the air. Natasha jerked her head up, locating the source immediately in a welcome Maria Hill standing on top of a van thirty yards to their west.

 

"We have a ride," Natasha announced. There was no response from Steve, but she found him following her, friend draped over his shoulder, clouds clustered over his brow. They moved quickly, were met by Wilson shortly before they reached the van. He looked boggled.

 

"What the hell is happening? Didn't this guy try to kill us all not two minutes ago and get way too close for comfort?"

 

"He's a friend." Natasha informed him and saved Steve the three words that would surely break his veneer of strength.

 

"Didn't seem like _he_ knew that." Sam frowned at Steve's baggage and then stood sentry as he and Natasha opened the back of the van.

 

"As of now–"

 

Steve interrupted her. "As of now, he doesn't, but he's my friend and I don't leave anyone behind."

 

"You know him? He's _your_ friend? You have weird tastes in friends, Steve."

 

"This isn't him. This isn't Bucky." Steve was tight-lipped as he strapped Bucky into the restraints of the van. "Something's happened since I last saw him."

 

"Yeah, I would say so. He's from before? Pre-ice?"

 

Steve nodded. Sam looked him over, noticed the care he used in handling this Bucky. It was a hard truth he felt compelled to continue with.

 

"Well, he's not your friend anymore, man."

 

"He may not remember, not yet, but he will. He's my friend…" The words must have stuck in Steve's throat. The air felt heavy with hurt. "Till the end…"

 

Natasha and Sam shifted uncomfortably as the words trailed off and Steve's voice fluttered away from him. This was deeply, painfully, horrifically personal. Neither questioned him after that. The car started and the partition slipped open as they all sat down.  A case popped through the opening which Natasha took immediately and stored under the bench. She noted with some dismay the seal stamped over it. The SHIELD insignia. The case stowed away perfectly in a compartment, in a compartment in this transport van with built-in restraints engineered specifically to lock down a man of the sort Bucky was, of an unpredictable asset. The observations chilled her to her bones. Volition was questionable where this van was involved. Tranqs and full-body cuffs, that haunted look frozen in those blue eyes. This was worse than Steve knew. Or maybe he did know, and that was why his eyes had the same preyed-upon blue echo.

 

"Good. You brought him." It was Maria. Her tone was too light. She had no idea of the implications or the situation. She didn't catch Natasha' warning look. "Finish securing him. We have some questions for him."

 

"Has SHIELD changed its policy on eliminating threats now?" As expected, Steve jumped down her throat.

 

"When the threat's been a mystery for half a century we tend to make an exception. There are some things we want to find out first. And, this isn't SHIELD." Hill gave Natasha a meaningful look and then turned her attention ahead. The van jostled forward as Steve gave his even, though no-less stern response.

 

"You can ask your questions, but that is all. This man is my friend, and you're not 'eliminating' him so long as I'm around."

 

Natasha ducked her head and poked at a gash in her knee. This was not going to be an easy next day or so. 'Not easy' was an understatement. The last day and a half hadn't been easy. What was to come was going to be downright torturous and in a whole new way. Nothing meant anything anymore. Things were scattered like an upturned chess board and Natasha was suddenly blind and numb. There was no way the pieces were going to be put back where they belonged.

 

Sam was having less of an existential crisis of doubt. He'd made his peace a long time ago, found it reaffirmed a few days earlier. His place was clear, he just needed to earn it.

 

Steve looked ruined. Sam couldn't blame him, really. Long-lost friend suddenly turns up and tries to kill him? Sam would have been real torn up by that, too. He certainly wouldn't have been staring, steely-eyed and resolute at the wall in front of him. He would have been rage-punching, or crying, or drinking. All the same, comfort was comfort. He reached a hand out and patted Steve on the shoulder. That was all. Just a good, consoling pat.

 

Steve met his eye and managed the smallest, saddest smile.

 

Nothing else was said the rest of the drive. Nothing could be said, the silence said it all. The silence and that broken smile.

 

* * *

Natasha used to think that she could count on one hand the number of secret bases SHIELD had established across the globe that she didn't know about. As she was slowly finding out, her hands and feet wouldn't be enough to tally them up really. This one was subterranean and beside a waterway. It smelled like stale sewers and mildew. It made her feel like a mouse in a maze, a mouse in maze whose dimensions had just doubled and scrambled around. She pushed that aside though while she helped Steve detach and unload Bucky from the van.

 

They considered leaving the chest vice intact and unlocking it from the van but, after one, long, grief-stricken look between them, neither could stomach the idea. He was instead borne out, unconscious, like the damsel in distress he was to Steve. He couldn't have carried him out more delicately if he'd been a fractured china doll. There was, of course, an assortment of holding cells, the one Hill led them to of the design built with Banner in mind. The whole base seemed to slow to a tiptoeing crawl as he laid Bucky down inside. It was a weighted moment for them because they valued their lives. But for Steve? For Steve it was because he valued his friend. Watching it made Natasha's throat tight.

 

She was too late on the draw to stop Maria, approaching with magcuffs. Steve merely cut his eye at her, though, and that was enough to communicate his decision about them. She backed from the room and shared a glance with Natasha on the way out. There was something else. Steve wasn't ready for whatever that was, however.

 

No, Steve had a singular focus. Bucky.

 

The cuffs Agent Hill had left made his mouth taste of bile. He kicked them across the room and removed her other gift, the three darts from Buck's neck. Those Steve couldn't resent too much, they'd saved him and Bucky from a worse resolution to their standoff. Even as the tranquilizers bounced onto Steve's palm the metal arm whirred to life, so he reluctantly took them and the cuffs and trudged from the room. Door barred, he moved to the plate glass window and watched his friend stir and waken.

 

His friend who didn't remember him. That same emptiness was there when Bucky opened his eyes again. It looked, dull and defeated, out from Bucky's face and withered Steve's resolve. Bucky wasn't dead, but he wasn't alive either, not as he should be. He was battered and broken, emptied out, mutilated and experimented on in ways that that arm only hinted at, surely. He was tortured and scared. He'd been abandoned and left to a cruelty that made death look kind. He'd been made a shell of a person and it was all Steve's fault.

 

Steve could feel Natasha and Sam a few paces behind him, watching as well. There was a collective sigh of relief when Bucky's first reaction wasn't to start thrashing wildly. That was quickly sucked from the room when his face, child-like and slack, turned around to observe the room with abject meekness. The switch was unexpected and far more disconcerting than the ruthless aggression exhibited before. Bucky was even more damaged than Steve had thought. A victim. A victim beaten into submission, by the look of it.

 

"Ahem." Agent Hill was there still, lingering in the shadows behind them. "There's something else you should see."

 

Steve didn't care. He only shook his head in a solemn 'no'. Bucky continued to look around his enclosure like a dog that had been kicked a few too many times to bite back. No, Steve needed to be here for this.

 

"Give us a minute," Natasha said quietly and then joined Steve at the window, Sam on his other side.

 

They were silent as the sound of Hill's boots faded. They too seemed transfixed by the spectacle in front of him.

 

"He had such a fire behind his eyes before."

 

Steve's words fell as dull and lifeless as the look on Bucky's face as he sat forward, shoulders hunched, head ducked. It genuinely looked like he was waiting to be beaten over the head with a newspaper. Natasha thought that as well, was equally surprised and disgusted by the switch that had flipped in him after being tranquilized. World famous assassins didn't generally just roll over when brought into a detention facility, especially not ones that could kill thirty men with their bare hands. Something off was happening, something that stunk of HYDRA and Zola, Nazis and super soldiers. It looked like they'd finally gotten one, a super soldier, but he wasn't really a soldier. He was a muzzled circus animal on a leash that didn't know how dangerous it was. Sam just couldn't get his head around it. It didn't make sense. Obviously, a whole shit ton had happened in between this guy being Steve's friend and him showing up the stone cold killer today. He had to ask.

 

"How?"

 

Steve looked over at him and his face read like a book. It wasn't a happy story. He looked back through the window to respond.

 

"We served together in the War. Before I got there, though, his unit was captured by the Germans. The HYDRA scientist Arnim Zola did some experiments on the boys, Buck was one of them. They were trying to replicate the serum that made me… this. Looks like they found something that worked. Bucky couldn't have survived that fall otherwise."

 

His voice broke and he paused. When he continued his jaw was hard.

 

"We were deep in the Alps. The fall was hundreds of feet. I–I didn't think… If I'd have known I would have searched for him. I _should_ have searched for him. It should have been me who found him, not them. But they did, they searched and now… now–"

 

"And now you've found him," Natasha cut in, voice quiet but firm. "What happened in between, Rogers, you couldn't help. You know that. But this?"

 

They all looked carefully at Bucky, his hair now in his face, hands splayed out in front of him.

 

"You might be able to help with this. As soon as we find out what they did to him. We can't do that, though, if we're dead, so we have to shelve this until those helicarriers are disabled." Her hand was light and cool on his arm. "Come on, Hill's waiting."

 

Steve followed Natasha out of the room slowly, but Sam lingered. The man in the room bothered him, Bucky was his name. He shouldn't just be left there. In his experience, abused kids shouldn't just be left alone to think it's their fault. The mind does awful things when left guessing and the way he was looking at his hands worried Sam. Natasha had been right, on the other hand. There was nothing they could do to help if they were dead, so he hustled out after them and hoped Bucky didn't decide he needed to punish himself.

 

* * *

Natasha was immensely relieved to find Nick alive. Immensely. Steve, though, hardly reacted and, in a way, Natasha understood. He had an objective, to finish with the helicarrier situation and get back to his friend as quickly as possible. That objective made him laser-focused. And it, with all the other sewage that had come to light in the past few days, made him very quick-tempered, which again Natasha could relate to. He had no patience for Nick's word-mincing and compromised ethics. Natasha was beginning to share that disillusionment. Too many secrets, too much compartmentalization. It made for horrible trust issues.

 

Fury saw that with Steve's scalding words leaving everyone in the room shifting uncomfortably. He had a way of cutting right to the bone of matters. He folded in short time and the agreement was reached: HYDRA was going down and SHIELD was crumbling with it. The symbiosis was too complete, the parasite couldn't be wholly cut from host without killing it. So they both had to die.

 

And die they did. Steve and Sam took care of the body, Natasha the mind. Pierce was the kill-shot. As he lay bleeding to death in the office Natasha felt a fleeting flash of red, wishing she'd taken him alive. Alive he could feel what he'd done to this world, to that man in the holding cell, pay for it with blood and tears. Death was too kind, but she shook that off as Nick called her. What was done was done. He was dead and nothing could be done about it. So was HYDRA and SHIELD, their secrets spilled onto the internet by Natasha's own hand. Now was the time to deal with the repercussions, James Buchanan Barnes among them.

 

Too bad that last helicarrier ended up going through the Triskelion. That really made things difficult. Really difficult for Sam especially. He'd done his thing, secured one helicarrier without a hitch, things were going swimmingly then that bulked up smack mouth got in the way and slowed things up. He got his, though, charbroiled as the building turned into a nest of metal and fire. It was a pain in the ass, but Sam made it out. He was scrappy. Steve was the last they picked up, found staring down at the limp body of a man in a lab coat.

 

"He'd been a handler," Steve informed them numbly. "I wanted to bring him in to explain what they did to Bucky. A strike team member shot him between the eyes."

 

"Better to die than reveal secrets," Natasha grumbled as she hauled Steve into the copter. "But don't worry, they're not secret anymore. They're trending."

 

Sam snorted as he slid aside to let Steve sit. He could see this was not time for humor still for Steve, so he changed approaches. His time in the helicopter bad not been idle, he'd made a few inquiries, out of concern and for Steve's sake.

 

"He's still there. He's stable. I asked."

 

"Thanks, Sam." Steve nodded but didn't seem relieved or comforted. Instead he turned even more inward and sounded even more disheartened. The Bucky thing was eating him alive. "I don't know what to do."

 

Elbows on his knees, face in his hands, Steve looked damn near disconsolate.

 

"That scientist was my way in. I don't know how to help him if I don't know what's wrong. All we know is that he doesn't remember me… or his own name." He sat up, decision apparently made. "I just need to find a way to help him remember. It doesn't matter _why_ he doesn't, just that he doesn't."

 

Sam wasn't so sure about that. The 'why' might be too much even for Steve to overcome with his sunny idealism. Natasha caught his eye. She'd been watching his response. The question had to be asked.

 

"And if he doesn't? If you can't recover who he was?"

 

Steve only shook his head, causing Natasha to step in.

 

"There won't be anyone around to protect him from the world, Steve. Remember that." It was a gentle reminder but ominous in its implications. They were exposed, and Bucky was a target for dozens of reasons that probably weren't his fault. It was a dangerous, fragile situation. "SHIELD's gone. Really gone."

 

"SHIELD did this to him, or kept it up," Steve mumbled.

 

"To save face, new SHIELD or its successor is going to want to put him down," Sam added.

 

As despondent as he'd been, Steve's resolution was not weakened in the least. He shrugged and responded like it was the most obvious thing. "I won't give up, not while I'm still breathing, not again. I'll get through to him. I will. He'll remember, I know it." 

 


	2. FOOD and WATER

The fallout from exposing SHIELD was going to be a massive, debilitating, grueling experience that would, no doubt, feel unending. To distract from that unpleasantness, Natasha buried herself in a fresh assignment immediately. No longer than three seconds stationary in the helicopter after the fall of the Triskelion and she had already begun pondering over how to uncover Bucky's Winter Soldier files. She had a good idea that a solid chunk of it had just been dumped on the internet courtesy of her sabotage, but there were sure to be even deeper, hidden reports elsewhere that they would want or even need. Luckily for them all, Natasha was an excellent acquirer of information on her own _and_ had some contacts…

 

Leaving Steve and Sam to their own devices at the holding cell, Natasha disappeared for a few hours. By the time she reappeared the sun had set and most of the base was sleeping. Sam included. He was splayed out over a few chairs against the back wall of the holding cell's observation area. Steve, however, was not asleep. In fact, he was in much the same state as he had been when Natasha had left him there much earlier. So was Bucky. Not sleeping either. Steve's point of focus was himself staring listlessly at the spot directly in front of him, looking but not seeing.

 

The two of them had been just so ever since Steve's failed attempt at reconnecting when they returned back from the helicarrier mission. He had only waited about six seconds before unlocking the cell and marching in with some sustenance. Bucky hadn't responded at first, so Steve had set aside the tray and edged closer, eventually stooping over to make eye contact. That must have been his mistake. His gentle 'hello's, questions, and commentary on the day weren't registered as aggressive until then. Buck had looked at him with dead eyes and then, like a switch had been flipped, hurled him across the room. Leaving the tray, with its bottle of water and plate of food, by the door, Steve had sulked out, soul more bruised than his throbbing shoulder. Bucky had stayed as before: hunched over, face slack, eyes glazed over.

 

And so the hours had passed, Steve staring right into Bucky's face, completely unseen for more reason than the one-sided glass between them. He heaved a great sigh as Natasha entered the room, his way of acknowledging her presence without breaking his staring vigil. She took the place beside him, tapping a folder against her fingertips, chewing her lip. Bucky looked bad. Now that she'd seen the before pictures, she understood Steve's dismay. He looked really bad. Clint hadn't even looked that hallowed out when he'd been magically possessed. At least he'd had some life in his eyes; false, hateful life, but it was something.

 

She let the binding of the folder fall with a dull clack against her hand four more times and then drew her breath. She was going to tell him and, in telling him, be as upfront and frank as possible but, and this was the difficult part, be supportive and encouraging as well. This was news that was nearly impossible to spin in a positive way.

 

"Can you help me with something?" Steve asked quietly before Natasha was able to start into breaking her news. He didn't look at her as he spoke but she could see his face in the reflection of the glass. It was twitching, like he was struggling with something. And in fact, he was.

 

"Could you pop my shoulder back into place? I've been feeling it trying to heal the past few hours, but I didn't want to wake Sam. I'm almost starting to worry it'll heal wrong."

 

What he neglected to say was that Sam had originally offered his help, having seen the launch across the room and heard the ensuing crack, but Steve had been unwilling to admit that Bucky had hurt him and he sure didn't want to wake him up to admit it now. Turned out, his shoulder hurt at least as much as his feelings.

 

Natasha weighed her options. She could ask the obvious – had Bucky had a violent reaction to him – or she could just supply her help. The latter was what Steve was asking for, without the possible addition of rubbing salt in the wound by making him admit the incident. If he wanted to share with her what had happened, he would on his own. She took another look at Bucky, now half the man he'd been before figuratively and in some ways literally, and then back to Steve. He was a good man, lived up to his reputation, but the man in the cell made her worried for him, made Natasha wonder how many more hits Steve could take before he broke. He was a good man, but he was only a man.

 

"Sure thing," Natasha said finally, laying a hand on his elbow to guide him out into the hallway. This was a conversation for a different place, a different talk than she'd planned, a longer one. She'd be sticking around for the repercussions of this one. "Let's just step outside so we don't wake Wilson."

 

Steve allowed her to lead him out, but kept his eye on the detention cell for as long as he could.

 

Yes, Natasha needed to be there for him through this. He was so close to being defeated by it. When he'd found out about Peggy Carter, Nick had had her on what he called American Depression detail, just waiting for him to collapse under his grief. Steve, however, was more resilient than that. He'd put on a brave face for Peggy through every visit, waited patiently through the dilations of her dementia, fought to make her happy. Then, he'd just kept that up, never wilting or feeling bad for himself, though he had every right to. But, this was worse than Peggy and it was in addition to his loss of her.

 

Natasha couldn't leave him to lose his second love to something much, much worse than a life lived happily but with someone else. Because Steve clearly loved Bucky. It didn't matter what flavor of love you wanted to claim it was, there was no debating that he loved that man sitting in that room with every inch of what was left of his battered heart, and seeing him having lost everything from his life, liberty and happiness, straight down to his mind was inarguably killing Steve. It might literally kill him, as this dislocated shoulder was just a preview of, with Steve simply submitting to it, if something wasn't done.

 

"Left?"

 

Steve nodded. It felt fine under Natasha's fingertips, but Steve's musculature wasn't exactly normal. She felt around for a few more seconds until he winced and she felt the give. It was completely out of socket and his deltoids were just latching it into place. That made her jaw clench, but she steadied her knee against his back anyway and lurched the joint back into place with a quick snap. Steve exhaled deeply when she was finished, rolling his arm and testing its feel.

 

"Thank you," he said, wearing a small look of relief. "So, what are you fretting over? You don't have a joint out of place you're embarrassed to admit to, do ya?"

 

Natasha returned his quick smile but shook her head. "No, nothing so simple as that, I'm afraid…"

 

"Well, it comes with the extra burden of your best friend having done it without provocation, so I don't think it's _that_ simple." There was jest in his voice, but that was clearly for Steve's own benefit. He didn't really find the point funny, but he _needed_ it to be.

 

"Yes, I see. It's actually along those lines though, Steve."

 

"About Bucky?" Steve's face was twisted between pain and hope.

 

"Yes, about Bucky. Steve, it's not good."

 

The hope drained away and left only pain with a healthy wrinkling of exhaustion. "Any worse than him not remembering anything, and flying into violent tantrums when people make eye contact with him? Because, if it is… I'm not sure I want to hear it right now."

 

"Not worse, necessarily, but it does…explain that."

 

"But it doesn't explain it and leave room to hope for recovery. Otherwise, you wouldn't have led with 'it's not good.'"

 

"No, well… I don't know. I'm not an expert on this, but you'll want to know. You should know. An explanation doesn't cure but sometimes it's just as comforting."

 

Natasha tapped the spine of the folder into her palm one more time and then held it out to him. Steve took it warily. The files themselves were not especially useful, not at first glance, just a bunch of technical notes and wattage accounts, some mechanical specs. It was what those data meant that mattered. It didn't seem to Natasha that Steve was even seeing them enough to make that first judgment, that they weren't all that useful, much less move on to the deduction. He was rifling through them, brow furrowed but obviously hardly computing or absorbing anything. He was numb or oversaturated, or both. She decided to sum it up for him, for them both really.

 

"It wasn't much that I could find. They didn't keep anything on their asset online, not even in their encrypted files – my guess is that they're stored on some dusty single server somewhere or, god forbid, handwritten – but I did unearth this data that indirectly gives an account of Bucky's time under Pierce at the least."

 

She reached out and flipped to one page in particular, pointing to a chart for Steve.

 

"That there, at first, I thought was some kind of expense tallying, but then I realized they were still using German metrics. Those are wattages and these two columns, date and duration. They were using electroshocks to reset him–"

 

"That's what took his memory?" Steve was suddenly alert, eyes sharp and hard.

 

"Yes, I would expect so. Electricity is hard on the central nervous system. It was used therapeutically for a while to–"

 

"Yes, to treat mental disorders. Bucky didn't have any of those, unless they considered a personality one."

 

"Which… uh, they probably did, considering your friend wasn't a Nazi sympathizer, indiscriminating assassin, or particularly good at following immoral orders. Anyway, these date back to the seventies. With a course of this intensity over this long a time…"

 

"They fried his mind is what you're saying."

 

Natasha tried to smile consolingly. She was pretty sure it turned out as a grimace. "There is no telling if it's recoverable but there is going to be substantial damage to his frontal and temporal lobes. That… that explains the personality differences as well. Essentially, it seems they wanted a blank canvas to work with."

 

"They wiped him clean."

 

"As much as they could I think. These earlier stats are the most disturbing, they also happened further apart, like they felt they had to wipe more the longer he was left on his own. That may be a good thing, though, Steve. That may indicate that he would recover things if left alone to heal. It may be reversible."

 

Steve nodded, but handed the documents back to her and crossed his arms.

 

"Studies for ECT report that the adverse effects on memory regularly abate with a longer lapse of time," Natasha offered weakly and then flipped the page. It was time to move on. Besides, feeding baseless hope was just about as useful as praying.

 

"This next page is actually a supplies list. This chemical is a coolant; it's ordered in mass amounts and regularly. This here's a metabolic depressor ordered in tandem and the dates align with the wattage usage cycles. I think they kept him in cryostasis in between missions, hence his longevity."

 

"He hardly looks a year older," Steve admitted. "Or he wouldn't if he had been taken care of properly."

 

"That _can_ be helped Steve, just as soon as we can. Okay?"

 

He nodded and she continued.

 

"Now, the arm… I couldn't find anything to explain or shed any light on the arm's origin even indirectly. I think it must go back beyond Pierce's time, to older files. However, I have a suspicion it ties to Dr. Zola somehow."

 

Natasha flipped back to the first page, the oldest file and pointed to a small subscript. "It's just a note, but it refers all system maintenance on the "asset" to New Jersey. I'd put money on that programming being written by Zola, if not the whole unit. In any case, we'll hopefully know more definitively when I hear back from my ex-KGB contact. They should have cases of files on him, given that red star on his shoulder and his inexplicable, near-fluent use of Russian."

 

Steve's mouth pressed into a thin line as he stared at the coordinates on the page. "Zola," he muttered and then shook his head. "I don't think we need those files to tell us that. He's responsible, Zola is. Bucky probably lost the arm in the fall. It was hundreds of feet. Hundreds. Into mountains and crags. It was probably then."

 

"Probably," Natasha agreed, adding, "you know, it's as good as prosthetics come. Considering."

 

It wasn't really the best thing to say. Natasha wasn't adept in consolation, but the heaviness in Steve's voice had left her feeling like she should try.

 

"It's not the problem, though. Can't fault them for repairing something that I caused him to lose." Steve was turned back towards the holding cell complex, talking to himself for the most part. "They gave him a new arm but took his mind. We can't build him a prosthetic mind. Or, then we'd be square."  

 

Natasha crossed and uncrossed her arms. Steve was verging on dangerous bounds, blaming himself for all this. But he was turned away from her now, less receptive. She didn't know how to proceed, not as a friend. Instead, she listened to Wilson snore in the next room over and tapped the file in her hand again, compulsively. Finally, she couldn't just let him stand there wallowing. She forced herself into his eye line and broached the topic eating at him.

 

"How is he doing?"

 

Steve nodded for her to follow and then walked back inside the complex and to the viewing window. Bucky was precisely where they'd left him. Not a hair out of place, like someone had paused him on a video screen.

 

"He does nothing," Steve commented flatly.

 

Natasha assessed the rest of the room. The bench was pristine, its sheeting unwrinkled except for the area Bucky was sat on. The south and east walls of the room were also unchanged and unoccupied. Beside the door was a tray with a crushed bottle of water and a sandwich all awry. It must have been in Steve's hands when the incident happened. The adjacent wall also bore the scar of Steve's impact, a crater denting its smooth façade about five feet above the floor. Bucky must have hurled Steve with all his might to create that kind of indentation in the concrete. No wonder Steve's shoulder had been dislocated. She wouldn't have been surprised if something had broken. And all that was unprovoked? After this endless comatose state? The electroshock had done its job, that was for certain.

 

"Is that the first tray of food?" She asked, avoiding the other, more pressing though currently futile concerns.

 

Steve nodded. Natasha drew a deep breath. It was something, a small goal to start with.

 

"Well, first thing's first. We get him to drink and to eat. One step at a time."

 

Small first step or not, if Steve had been any other man he would have felt it was insurmountable at that point. But he wasn't, he was Steve Rogers and he wasn't going to back down, as discouraged as he felt in that moment. Bucky would take that first step and eat and drink or Steve would shove it down his throat. As he was contemplating the psychological repercussions of that particular course of action ex-Director Fury joined him and Natasha. Steve didn't really want to take the time for his bureaucracy but it wasn't going to be ignored. When he didn't respond to Fury's status question, Nick scoffed and made a rather abrupt announcement.

 

"You have to vacate. The base is compromised and I'm on my way to continue being dead in Europe. Big things to deal with over there. He's all yours, Cap, I suppose."

 

Sunglasses replacing his usual patch, Fury turned from contemplating Bucky with them and laid a hand on Steve's shoulder. It was still sore.

 

"I trust you'll do what you have to."

 

Even through the dark lens of the glasses Steve could see the director's eye boring into him, sharp with implications. Steve shrugged off his hand and evened his voice.

 

"I'll do what's right."

 

Fury sighed, with weariness, not surprise. He had to have seen this coming. "He's a liability, Rogers."

 

"He's my friend."

 

" _Was_ your friend. He's HYDRA now."

 

"He's a victim of HYDRA, Nick." Steve turned to actually face Fury now, to hammer home his point that he felt for sure would be one of contention between the two of them, possibly permanently, possibly down to brass tacks. "We, the good guys, are supposed to save the victims, and we're not supposed to _eliminate_ them when they prove difficult to save. Or haven't you learned the easy way isn't usually the right way to do things yet, _Director_?"

 

The slight slid off Fury like water over oil. He replied with almost casual concern now. "You might not be able to save him. What if it's too late?"

 

"It won't be."

 

"And if it is?"

 

"It _won't_ be. That's the difference between us, Nick. I don't give up hoping. There's always a hope."

 

 "If a dog has rabies, you put it down because then it's too late."

 

"This isn't a disease, Fury! This is something someone did to him. Men did it. Small, vicious, weak men, not half of what Bucky is. The work of men is imperfect and impermanent. They couldn't have taken all of him… and… if they did, he still doesn’t deserve to die."

 

When Fury opened his mouth to rebut Steve could not restrain his rage, slamming his fist into the wall and effectively silencing him. "He doesn't!"

 

The whole base vibrated under his hand as Steve stared Fury down, but everything else was silent. Out of nowhere Sam was awake and muttering something quickly.

 

"–have stirred him. Steve, _look_ , man."

 

Following Sam's point, Steve looked back inside the cell to where Bucky sat, no longer entirely immobile. He turned in time, actually, to see Bucky's small, surprised response to Steve's outburst. He had turned his head towards them and was blinking, his eyes baleful as if he were looking for something. Again, he was the perfect image of a lost child.

 

"Look at him," Steve said in low, even tones and then waited until Fury did. "Look at him and tell me that is not a victim. Look at him and tell me he can't be saved. That's fear and confusion on his face. That's pain and sadness. Those emotions, _human_ emotions he's actively feeling. If we toss him out because he's damaged, we're no better than HYDRA, treating him like a weapon. Maybe just treating him with some humanity will be enough, instead of what he's used to: being used, wiped clean, and stuck away in storage like a gun. He's not a weapon, not a threat, not a liability. He's a person and I'm going to treat him like one. Always."

 

Steve didn't even wait for Fury's reaction. He turned his back on him immediately and returned to watching Bucky, whose blue eyes were still gazing widely in the direction of the hole in the wall Steve had left in indignation. There was a deeply heaved sigh behind him and then the sound of retreating boot-falls, but no true response. Steve had won that bout.

 

Natasha was beside him still, practicalities on her tongue. "We've still got to move him. Now."

 

"I know. I'll go tell him."

 

She matched Steve step for step and he paused.

 

"Let me come with you," she said, eyes slipping to his shoulder and then reminding him, "I've got the EMP."

 

She didn't say it explicitly, but it was fairly clear she was worried Steve would sustain another injury and not get Bucky to comply, thus making their task all the more difficult. He stifled a sigh and then gestured for her to follow him inside.

 

When Steve opened the door, Bucky actually responded, turning to look immediately, and staring with a crinkle between his brows. He looked like he was just about to say something, or maybe ask a question. Steve froze and waited patiently for that to happen, but it didn't. Instead, Bucky's attention darted behind Steve, his eyes locking on Natasha as she crept inside and steeling icy. He was on his feet in an instant, barreling towards them even faster.

 

Natasha managed to hop aside in time and Steve caught Bucky around the waist, lifting him over his shoulder and dropping with him to the ground. It was a wrestlers move, but it was effective enough and Steve was quickly able to pull Buck into a full body-lock. Soon he was just squirming, all thrashing prevented by Steve's limbs' vice grip on him.

 

"Hey, hey, hey, Buck. Buck. It's me, it's Steve. That's Natasha. She's not going to hurt you. Neither of us are. We're just moving from here. We all have to go somewhere else, it's not safe."

 

Steve was glad he couldn't see Bucky's face. He could imagine it, though. It was bound to be full of rage and terror. Natasha could see it. It was locked on her, staring like he wanted to kill her. No matter what Steve was saying, Bucky clearly wasn't going to believe him that Natasha wasn't going to hurt him.

 

"You're coming with us, so we can help you. Okay?" Steve continued in his gentlest tones and then slightly loosened his hold on Bucky's throat to get his response.

 

It was no good. Buck went straight back to thrashing violently and Steve was forced to tighten it back up.

 

"Come on, Bucky, please stop. I know you're afraid and confused, but this isn't helping either."

 

He didn't stop. Not until Natasha decided her presence was doing more harm than help and backed from the room. Once she was gone he calmed considerably, even going so far as to stop squirming. Steve tried again, loosened his squeeze on his neck and asked again.

 

"Okay? Will you cooperate now…"

 

The second question died on his lips as he felt Bucky go limp as a ragdoll at the word 'cooperate.' Steve released the body hold completely and found Bucky remained utterly submissive, his face shut down and the former prospect of speech lost. He didn't even meet his eyes now. Internally berating himself for somehow reminding Bucky of his HYDRA handlers or triggering his conditioning, Steve trudged to the door and decided to try something while Bucky was receptive to suggestion.

 

"How 'bout some food and water before we go? Huh?"

 

Bucky blinked up at him but still kept his eyes averted. Steve felt like he'd been kneed in the solarplexes when Bucky held out his hands, waiting to be cuffed.

 

Natasha was worried about Steve at this point, like seriously worried. It looked as though he'd chew a hole in his lip soon, the way he was biting down on it. She knew it was because he was stifling his emotions, but that wasn't cause to worry about him any less. Cuffing Bucky was literally hurting Steve more than it was Bucky. Maybe. The man was so shut down at this point that Natasha couldn't tell. It was possible he was in turmoil but his mind wasn't whole enough to let him deal with that.

 

She waited until his hands and feet were secured with the magcuffs Hill had provided what felt like years ago and then hauled the body vice from the van to the door and a hood. Steve saw her first, from the corner of his eye, when Natasha opened the door, and for a split second it looked like he was going to reject these additional restraints wholesale. But then, Bucky – not even bridling against her presence – simply dipped his head for the hood and Steve buckled. It was too much for him, and, in truth, it was probably best for Bucky that they proceed with what he was comfortable with, or rather what he expected. Just for now, to limit the additional trauma.

 

Steve's mood didn't lighten any from that point on, and Natasha found her supposition had been right, he'd bit until he bled. She caught him wiping it away when they took a break from hoisting the body vice onto Bucky. The back of Steve's hand was stained red as it secured the final latch. His eyes were also glazing.

 

The saddest part was, obviously, the way Bucky was just submitting to all this manhandling. It was indicative of so much more insidious things than just the loss of his memories. He stood, compliant and docile as she and Steve discussed their plans, not even bothered by the hundreds of pounds of weight immobilizing him.

 

"Banner has a bunker about a hundred miles west of here," Natasha informed them, relaying what Hill had just told her not five minutes before. "It's completely under the radar, was not in the SHIELD database, so it'll be a good spot to lay low for a while. I think you should go on ahead with him tonight and I'll follow up, but not just yet. I have some things to take care of in the morning first before I disappear. Does that work for you?"

 

Steve nodded, a tight, curt motion, and then turned to Bucky. Sam intercepted him, shuffling up with a yawn. Apparently he'd been awake again and listening.

 

"I'll drive once I've had some coffee. You'll need the break and someone should be in the back with him."

 

Steve appreciated the gesture, but knew it was above and beyond. "Thanks, Sam, but you can stay, go home. I can manage this on my own."

 

He couldn't help grimacing as he heard that echo back and then into his past. Sam didn't skip a beat, but he was on his own track.

 

"No," he said shaking his head, "not when your stubborn ass needs me and doesn't even know it. No, I'm coming with."

 

* * *

The drive was a long one, through the deepest part of the night and Steve was grateful every minute of it for Sam's help. Try as he might have, Steve wouldn't have been able to drive, keep an eye on Bucky and stay composed all at the same time. His mind wouldn't drift from Buck for more than a few seconds at a time and being able to check on him made him feel better, so driving would have been a nightmare. Besides, it was nice having someone to talk to who actually responded.

 

"He almost said something to me earlier," Steve told Sam about thirty minutes into the trip.

 

"Oh, yeah?"

 

"Yeah. I could swear it was like a little part of him was awake again."

 

Sam was watching him through the rearview mirror. "What happened?"

 

"Natasha came inside the room and the switch flipped. I couldn't get him back to that afterwards, he went boneless instead."

 

"Triggers, man. They're unpredictable and friggin' devastating."

 

"Yeah…"

 

Steve looked back at Bucky, huddled into the van, head covered, blind and confused. Talk about a trigger.

 

"What'cha doin'?" Sam asked as he switched seats and began reaching for snaps.

 

"I'm taking this hood off of him. It's part of a trained response for submissiveness, that's a kind of trigger, isn't it?" He waited but Sam had nothing to say to that. "I'm not going to be a part of enforcing that kind of behavioral manipulation. Not if I can help it. Bucky? I'm taking this off now. Please don't panic."

 

Bucky didn't panic, but he did look perfectly surprised, squinting in even the low light of the van. He didn't move or offer any sort of resistance, but he did follow Steve with his eyes. That made him feel better, made Steve feel like he'd done something right, seeing Bucky act with a grain of autonomy. He almost, just almost, looked like he was interested in something about Steve. Maybe it was the change to 'procedure'.

 

Steve thought that made this a good opportunity to try to get Bucky to drink something. He didn't have any food on him or he'd have tried that, too. As it was, the bottle of water would have to do. Except it wouldn't. Bucky was having none of it. Steve held it to his mouth, even found a straw for him, but Bucky wouldn't move to sip or open his mouth, nothing. Eventually, he actually turned his head away.

 

"Come on, Buck," Steve half-sighed, moving to his other side to offer the water bottle again and meeting the same frosty reception. "You gotta drink some water. You're bound to be dehydrated."

 

No matter the number of times Steve shuffled from one side of him to the other, Bucky would not accept the water. He did, however, pause the shunning at Steve's latest, most dejected pleading. His eyes were skittish as he considered Steve, looking at him for a quick second and then downward and then back to him again.

 

"Do you know me?"

 

Steve's whole body flinched involuntarily. It was Bucky's voice, he spoke, but the words held no comfort in them. They nearly hurt worse than the silence, especially spoken with such confliction and confusion, in a voice rough from disuse.

 

"Yes. I know you. You're Bucky Barnes–James Buchanan Barnes and I'm Steven Rogers. We grew up as kids together, known each other forever. You're my best friend, my family."

 

It didn't help that Steve's voice cracked with emotion, or maybe it did. Bucky studied him for the longest he'd maintained contact since their fight. His expression was clouded, though. After a few moments, he looked away and shook his head, just a fraction of an inch.

 

"No," he whispered, then sucked in his lips and dropped his chin. "I'm not. I don't have a name."

 

Gladly would Steve have traded another brutal beating by Bucky in the street in place of this. It would have been far less painful. He could hardly see with the tears in his eyes, but he was pretty sure, judging by Bucky's face, that he would have opted likewise. Nonetheless, wallowing wasn't going to do anything for either of them, so he sucked it up and composed himself.

 

"You don't remember it… but you do know me. You know who I am."

 

Bucky furrowed his brow and squinted hard, like he was shutting out the light or the memories. "I… do… I–I think… Why don't I remember?" The words took something out of him and Bucky's eyes clapped shut, his face screwed up to further shut the world out. He was trembling now at something; Steve could only guess at what. And he did guess. Steve guessed and guessed and pondered aloud and conjectured for hours, but they were only guesses. Because, try as he might, Steve couldn't get Bucky to be responsive again. Not to anything.

 

He merely stared at his hands when he finally opened his eyes again and didn't look up or even move when Steve mentioned water next. There was no reaction from him when the water bottle rested lightly against his lips. He was catatonic.

 

The whole devolution made Sam cringe. He'd been watching as best he could through the partition, though he felt at some times he shouldn't, that this was a little too personal somehow. Nonetheless, he felt he had to say something when Steve's hero-face finally fractured into about a billion pieces. Poor guy had lasted a good twenty minutes of vegetable-Bucky with all that strength and resilience in his jaw but apparently that didn't feed from some bottomless well in his soul. He tapped it out, had to turn away when it crumpled. Even non-responsive, Steve wanted to save Bucky from seeing him hurt. It was pretty touching.

 

"Hey, we–we'll get him fluid eventually, by straw or IV. Don't worry, man." Sam's voice was not the upbeat, assuring one he'd planned on.

 

That didn't matter, though. Steve had bottomed out.

 

The rest of the drive was a long series of iterated motions, mostly for the sake of Steve's sanity, Sam assumed. He'd offer water, pause, offer it again, say some consoling words and then sit back, watch, repeat. Everybody in the van was coping in their own way. Sam planned breakfast – it was going to be epic, full of fat and carbs and all kinds of comfort – while Steve compulsively played the care-taker and Bucky shut the fuck down. Sam wouldn't have been surprised if someone told him the guy didn't have brain activity. He legit looked like he was in a coma.

 

When the drive of this obscurely located and ridiculously well-hidden bunker glowed in the van's headlights, it wasn't any sort of relief. At least in the van things had been contained and stable. Now, they had to go into this new place, with its new things and hold their breath as to whether or not Bucky would reemerge there. Sam pulled in, past the hunting blind and into a cavern-made-garage, and then turned off the engine. He counted exactly six seconds before the expected, weighted sigh came from Steve. He was, as Sam knew he would be, holding the hood in his fingers like it was a bomb.

 

Sam understood his hesitance. They would essentially be handling him like a prisoner, or worse, if they hooded him. On the other hand, though, Bucky was not stable. He could hurt them and himself if something else visually triggered him. It was a tough call. Ironically, Bucky's compliance, ducking his head for it, only made Steve all the more resistant to using the hood. Or maybe not ironically. Maybe logically. Sam couldn't tell anymore. The whole thing was fucked.

 

He hopped out of the front seat instead of further ruminating over the morality of the situation and opened the rear. Bucky wasn't moving. Steve looked hopelessly at Sam and then back at Bucky.

 

"We're going inside now, Bucky. The restraints are separated from the van, we need you to get up and follow us."

 

Bucky didn't even lift his head up.

 

"I… I–" Again Steve looked to Sam for help.

 

"No hood, no movement, I guess. You'll have to lug 'em." Sam shrugged and began collecting their packs so that Steve could focus only on carrying Bucky.

 

"Carry him inside?" Steve hesitated and then shook his head, immediately standing and hauling Bucky over his shoulder.

 

Sam winced as he watched. That had to weigh a ton, had to be heavy even for Steve.

 

It was heavy for Steve, more metaphorically than physically, and it absolutely wasn't comfortable. Climbing down a never ending spiral of stairs, he became distinctly aware of that discomfort but ignored it. If the body vice was cutting into the skin of his shoulder, he couldn't imagine what it was doing to Bucky, what it had been doing to him. He could just deal with it for this short walk.

 

Finally, they came to the entrance hatch of Banner's bunker and Steve relayed the access code Natasha had given him to Sam, eagerly waiting to be through with this dehuminization of Bucky. The walk inside the bunker didn't go as smoothly as the rest had, but Steve was almost glad for it. Bucky's thrashing and kicking was something Steve could deal with but his unresponsiveness was suffocating.

 

"The med equipment," Steve guessed and fell to his knee to drop Bucky to the ground. The fight had been too much for him to bear on that shoulder. Bucky was too strong, the restraints too heavy. "Help me with him, will you, Sam?"

 

Steve flattened out over Bucky's chest, pinning his torso down and holding his head so he wouldn't bash it in, but his legs were free. Sam wrangled those down with some effort.

 

"Hey, hey, hey. You're going to be okay. It's alright. You're okay. We're not going to do anything to you that you don't want. Promise. Please, just calm down." He kept muttering to Bucky the same kinds of things until the thrashing ebb to wriggling, then straining and finally ragged breathing.

 

Pleased with his ability to bring him down from that cliff, Steve stood up and waited for Bucky to follow. He didn't. He only stared at the ceiling, having resumed his coma.

 

"There won't be any IV's, Sam, I don't think." He said sadly.

 

"Yeah, I guess not." Sam shifted, clearly uncomfortable. "I think, Steve, bad as it may be, we're going to have to use that." He was pointing to the door in front of them labelled 'containment room.' "It's better than the alternative…"

 

Steve looked around at the innocuous instruments that had set off Bucky's fight-response then down at the result of that. The world was just too much for Bucky at that moment. Sam was right. He needed to be confined, just until he got some clarity back.

 

"Alright. Let's get him inside then."

 

"This is temporary. A precaution," Steve announced needlessly to Bucky several minutes later. He was standing in the center of the room, the door wide open, looking around. "You can stay in here, Buck, until things are a little less confusing. This is safe and clean and… you can't hurt yourself in here."

 

It was a needless announcement because, as was now his base state, Bucky was not responsive. He hadn't even flexed or stretched or sighed when Steve had wrenched all those restraints off of him. He'd only sat. Sat and stared at the floor.

 

It really bothered Steve that he wasn't trying to escape. The door was there, wide open. There was nothing keeping Bucky in that cell except his own inertia. That or some fear that Steve didn't know about or how to quell. All the same, he kept trying. He eventually gave up explaining the situation and instead sat down to wait for Bucky to acknowledge anything in that room, but especially Steve's presence.

 

He didn't. He made no eye contact. Didn't move save to breathe.

 

Sam had lingered for a little while, pacing around the doorway, but he'd eventually given up and told Steve he wasn't superhuman. He had to get some sleep. Steve understood; didn't mind being left alone with Buck. And so, the great stare off began, and by stare off, this really meant staring without making eye contact. Bucky was always the winner.

 

"Alright. You're not comfortable looking at me. That's fine. You can listen." Steve adjusted himself until he was seated directly across the room from Bucky. "I'll just talk to you for a little while."

 

And he did. He talked for hours, it seemed, about everything. It started with old stuff, happy memories he thought might spark something in Bucky. A few broken bones that hadn't been really earned. Some small-time adventures with tin cans and tires. Those ran out quicker than Steve would have liked and received no response. So, he moved on, on to lost pasts, things that happened when they were both put on ice. He picked out things that he thought Bucky would especially like: an actor had been president, how almost anyone could go to college, the number of cheeses he could put on things, microbrews, rock music, popcorn made at home. When he finally ran out of those sorts of things, Steve fell into a more reflective kind of place. He started confessing really personal things that he hadn't actually gotten around to admitting to anyone yet. He told him about Peggy, about how helpless he felt in this world, about the problems he saw in others like them, about how hard it was to be so alone.

 

"Really, Buck, it's amazing that I've made it this far. I've soldiered on, sure, but for a while there I didn't think I could do it. Too much has changed, and not always for the better. And, what's been worse, no one actually understands. It's been more than just… waking up in a different world and learning new things. It was like losing my life. I've got all that mourn and miss. Peggy was hard, but… at least she was still new and the same. It helped to bridge the years, but… the rest… I haven't dealt with losing the rest all that well."

 

He scoffed at himself. He was crying.

 

"Most especially with losing you, Bucky. I couldn't get past not having you around..."

 

Steve trailed off when he noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye. Bucky had looked up finally, but instead of meeting Steve's eye, he turned his back to him.

 

"I'm not Bucky."

 

The words fell hard and blunt, bounced around the room like lead bricks despite being just barely muttered. Steve was at a loss, fighting for breath like he'd been gut-punched, his head spinning like he'd been clocked across the jaw. He struggled for words for a few moments, trying not to let it beat him. His response, when it finally came, was garbled and weak.

 

"Y–you are. Yes. You are. You're Bucky. I know you. You're Bucky Barnes. You're my best friend. You–you're…"

 

He gave up at that point. Bucky had hunched so far over he looked like he was waiting to be kicked, and it was Steve who was going to be doing the kicking. That ended his talk-session abruptly. Stripped of the safety-blanket of words, Steve spun in place, futilely searching for something to comfort Bucky with wordlessly. He needed a blanket or a punching bag or a cup of milk. Something. But, there was nothing in there, in Banner's prison cell. It was all glaring white walls, sterile surfaces and restraints machined into the floor next to grates.

 

Luckily, before Steve could fall into what felt like a panic attack, Sam rescued him. He grabbed Steve by the shoulder and led him from the room, comforting the wrong person.

 

"Don't beat yourself up about it. It's the PTS, not you. He'll come out of it. He just needs some time and some space. Just for a little while."

 

"I don't know, Sam." Steve pulled away as they stepped through into the living area he'd yet to see before. "Space and all that won't do him any good if he's dehydrated and starving himself. He needs to drink and eat."

 

Sam nodded but continued to guide Steve away. "Yeah. He does. We'll get around to that. Can't do anything about it when he's shutting you out, though. Let him be for a bit. Let 'em realize that he's hungry and thirsty on his own. Crowding him like that is only making him focus harder on shutting you and everything else out. Trust me. I've seen it before."

 

Steve realized that Sam was pushing him towards a back room, a bedroom. He dug his heels in and didn't move another inch. "I'll leave him in there, but I'm not leaving him alone."

 

"Steve, man, go sleep some. I'll take this shift, I'll watch him."

 

"No. I'll stay."

 

"Fine. At least… here," Sam pointed to the table where some food had been laid out. "At least eat and drink something yourself. It's cold now but I can warm it up."

 

"No." Steve was adamant on this point. If Bucky was suffering because of him, so would he. "I'm not eating, drinking or sleeping until he does."

 

Sam sighed, a deep, weary sigh from his gut. "Fine. Be stubborn with him. I swear to god, it's like they cut all you guys from the same cloth back then. Oh, I'm from the Second World War era, I can withstand any hardship. I'll do it just prove that I can do it. Look at me, I'm resilient, I'm self-sacrificing, I'm damaged in an endearing way and I'm not going to do anything about it because it's part of who I am now. I'm a pain in your ass."

 

Sam stalked out of the room, the commentary continuing even until he stomped back in with a laptop, which he placed in front of Steve.

 

"…the same damn person. Drift-compatible, I bet, yeah, compatible to drive a big, 'ole pain in my ass. There. Watch him do just what you're doing, but at least do it from the couch. Don't stand in that doorway and stare at him like a dog in the rain. Okay?"

 

The laptop sat on the table for a few minutes, Steve and Sam staring each other down. Steve was a big, stubborn guy, but he was a softy. He folded eventually and stayed in the living space with Sam. Of course, he didn't sit on the couch with the computer. He sat at the table, in the cushion-less, straight-backed chair. He was a mule.

 

After a few hours of staring silently, motionlessly at the computer screen that mulishness ebbed away, or ran out, or outlasted the rest of Steve's traits. It must have done something, because Sam looked up from reading about their escapade to find Steve asleep with his eyes open. That or he was so exhausted and entranced with watching that the was in some waking slumber. Either way, it was his chance to try something to derail both stubborn trains.

 

Slowly and quietly, ever so quietly, Sam made his way around the kitchen and put together a small meal from the midnight breakfast he'd made earlier. Washing off a surgical tray, he loaded it with a glass of water – the bottle Steve had been trying seemed too industrialized, could be putting Buck off – some toast and a few slabs of bacon, because who could turn down bacon, and finally a good, old-style, sunny-side up egg he cooked just then, real quick. Plastic fork in hand, he hurried past zombie-Steve and into the lab area.

 

Bucky was actually attentive when Sam opened the door – See? He'd needed time. That was what he was going to tell Steve, just as soon as he got out of there – and, even though Sam approached him slowly and casually, watched him like a cornered animal. The fear was there again, and wariness, too. They made his eyes wide under dropped brow.

 

There were two ways Sam could play this and he knew which one he wasn't going to try. He didn't even make a move to smile that fake, condescending 'everything's alright even though I have no idea and couldn’t care less' grin. He didn't play the false card. Instead, Sam went in bald-faced and genuine, with everything on the table. He made eye contact, but not aggressively, and offered just a gentle nod when Bucky held it. Tray set half way in between them, he knelt and treated Buck like he'd have wanted to be treated, with an straight-up explanation.

 

"Hey, I don't know you and you don't know me, so I get you're edgy. I'd be suspicious as hell if I were you. This place, it's a bunker for this scientist, this room's here for when things get violent. That's why it's so sterile. You're in here because you're strong like a bear and scared like one, too. Scared and confused, right?"

 

Bucky didn't move or respond, but he also didn't look away from Sam. It was like he was listening and actually hearing so Sam kept on.

 

"Right. So, you're scared and confused and suspicious. Not a good combo to be taking food and water with, that makes sense, you don't know where it comes from. Just hear me out, then you can decide. This… I made these with my own hands, ate it, too, but don't take my word on it."

 

Sam reached out, snapped a piece of bacon off, and dipping it in the spilt yolk of the egg popped it in his mouth.

 

"Mmm, bacon, man. There. I made it and I ate it, and not to toot my own horn, but it's pretty good. And the water…"

 

He picked the glass up and sipped from it too.

 

"Is just water, straight from the tap. You don't have to eat or drink this. You don't, it's your call, but my man, Steve, in there… he really wants you to eat and drink _something_. In fact, he's so worried, he's refused to as well. He's not gonna' 'til you do."

 

Sam stayed there, braced on his haunches with his eye on Bucky's, face open as he assessed him. He knew this was a make or break. Bucky was reading him from this. The frank and earnest play was the right call. Within a minute of careful scrutiny, the hard edge to Buck's brow smoothed and he opened his posture to Sam some.

 

"Who are you?" He asked in a voice soft enough to surprise Sam. The man did not sound like he looked.

 

"Me? I'm just Sam Wilson."

 

Bucky still seemed cautious and shifted to one side to continue inspecting him. "Are you a doctor?"

 

"No, man. I'm a soldier."

 

That was accepted more readily as true and as suitable to him. Bucky even lifted his chin some to face Sam instead of glowering up at him. "Like him?"

 

"Slower and way after his time," Sam scoffed, "but yeah. Just a grunt."

 

Bucky nodded and caught up the glass of water to down it in one go. Interview over, he dropped his eyes and didn't acknowledge Sam further. He was dismissed. Point taken and mission complete, Sam collected the empty water glass and stood to leave.

 

"Thanks, man," he said, glancing over as he reached the door, but stopped when he found Bucky watching him.

 

"I know him, don't I?"

 

"Yeah, man, you did once."

 

"I can't remember who he is, but…" Bucky grimaced and there was real torment there. "I know that I know him."

 

Sam nodded, his first show of coaxing affirmation. "You'll get there, man. It'll come back. I'll bring you more water."

 

Sam would have been lying if he said he wasn't pleased with himself about how that went as he left the room. Not only had he been right, but it was positive, and he was happy for Steve, looking forward to telling him the good news. He was still mildly comatose when Sam slipped back past him, so before filling up the water he put together a tray of food just the same as Buck's to leave for when he came to. The smell of bacon must have roused him, though, because he was blinking and responsive when Sam set the plate down.

 

"Your turn."

 

He wasn't sure what he'd been thinking, but Steve's face was not what Sam had been expecting. There was relief there, sure, as he watched Bucky pick at the toast on the computer screen, but there was also an overwhelming amount of heart-break.

 

"How'd you do it?"

 

Of course. Sam should have realized he'd think it was a failure-success thing with the matter hinging on what Steve did wrong but Sam did right. It wasn't. Not entirely.

 

"Don't take it personal, Steve. He doesn't know me and that's probably easier for him to deal with, less confusing."

 

"Oh, I've been no better than anyone else, pressuring him to remember." Steve groaned and dropped his face into his hands. He added quietly from between his fingers, "I'll leave him alone from now on."

 

Sam clapped his shoulder lightly, poor Steve. "Just until he calms down some. He knows he knows you. When he works through that, it'll be cake."

 

"He does know?"

 

"Yeah, he can't remember properly, but he says that he knows that he knows you _somehow_. And, hey, he finally considered drinking _after_ I told him you weren't gonna 'til he did."

 

Steve looked away then, studied his plate as he pushed the egg around it with his fork. Sam just shook his head and left to bring that second glass of water to Buck. These two; it was easier to get rocks to fully express emotions.

 

He entered the same way as last time, carefully but relaxed. Buck eyed him but not nearly for as long as before and then returned to staring at his now empty plate. That was good, too. He'd practically licked the thing clean. Then again, it meant he was starving, possibly literally. Sam set down the fresh glass in exchange for the plate.

 

"You want some more?" He asked just in case, but Buck had done what was required and was doing no more than that. He shook his head and kept his gaze averted. Oh well, it was a good start. "We'll be right out here if you need anything."

 

Sam couldn't help but grin when he stepped back into the living area with the empty plate. Steve almost returned it.

 

"First step taken."

 


	3. HYGIENE

Steve was glad that Sam had gotten Bucky to eat and drink. He really was. He was glad and relieved and even felt his hope stir a little stronger. But, part of him was deeply wounded by the fact that Bucky responded to Sam and not him. So deeply that the fact that Buck only ate because of his knowledge of Steve's hunger-strike didn't quite dawn fully on him until later. When it did, though, he felt better, and then guilty about the fact that somehow, somewhere deep in Bucky he felt responsible for Steve's wellbeing, and then guilty that he'd felt better because of that. It was all too much guilt to be called a relief. But it was an encouraging sign. He maybe, somewhat remembered Steve or he maybe, somewhat still had Bucky's personality locked away in there somewhere. Either was great. Really, it was.

 

Steve was waiting for another sign of one of these possibilities the whole morning. He sat at that table and stared at that computer screen with boundless patience. There was sure to be something else. It wasn't just Sam's effect on Bucky, because he didn't have an effect, Buck didn't know him. As he sat and watched and waited, Steve tried to concoct some conversations and approaches to speaking with Bucky that emulated Sam's effect-less-ness, some neutral things to say that wouldn't put pressure on him remembering or confuse him. It wasn't going so well. There was always something there. There was too much between them to not have any history in his words.

 

Steve was staring at Bucky, who was in his sixth hour straight of gazing at the wall in front of him in total rapture, grappling with yet another hypothetical situation and mumbling under his breath when Sam walked back out into the living area.

 

"Hey, Bucky– damn, no, can't call him by his name. That's pressure. Right.  Hey… hey! Hey, fella. No. Hey. Just hey… Hey, it's probably– no. 'Hey' all by its self just abrupt. Hey, guy? No that's a man's name… maybe just stick with hey, fella."

 

"Uh… Steve? You alright there?"

 

He turned around quickly to nod at Sam, who was staring at him with unguarded concern.

 

"Oh, yes. Fine. Just fine." He lowered his voice again and kept muttering. "Hey, fella, it's probably time that you have another meal. Ugh. No. That just sounds clinical. Maybe 'I think', then it's not about him but focused through me. Unless that makes him feel like I'm forcing my decisions on him."

 

Sam edged up behind him as Steve chewed over that one. "So… Bucky Watch 2014's going that well, huh?"

 

"What's that?"

 

"Nothin'. Hey, you tried that shower yet? I don't know what your scientist friend did to it but it is freakin' nice."

 

Steve nodded along politely, but was already back to pretending one-sided conversations.

 

"Yeah… it's great. You should try it. As in, go shower, man."

 

"Mm-hmm." Steve leaned forward and tapped his chin. Maybe he could lead with something less incendiary, maybe with a question. No. That was a mistake too.

 

"Steve. Hey, Steve? Did'ya hear me?"

 

"What? Oh, yes. Great. Good news."

 

Sam blinked down at him in disbelief for a few moments and then gave it up. No point being polite about it at this point. He wasn't even listening, he wasn't going to catch subtlety.

 

"No, Steve. I said the shower is great. You should go take one. Go shower, Steve, because you stink." He nodded his head when Steve finally spun around looking abashed. "Mm-hmm. You do. You stink. He stinks. I stunk. It's been a rough couple days, everybody needs a hosin' down. Don't take offense."

 

Steve ducked down and sniffed at his shirt. "Is it that bad? I'm sorry…"

 

"No, don't apologize. It's cool. Just go shower. Get your super-soldier ass up and wash its superhuman stank off. Seriously."

 

He considered Sam's comments for a moment, looked back at the Bucky Cam, and then frowned.

 

"I'll shower when he goes to sleep," he said finally. Sam groaned.

 

This had been his attempt to get Steve to relax. He didn't really stink that bad, he just needed a break from fretting over Buck. He'd really only eaten once, not slept or taken any sort of time for himself in, like, 72 hours. It was time.

 

That was a lost cause, but Sam could still help in other ways. It was about noon by this point. He could try to coax some more food into them both again and it still be reasonable. He was going to make lunch, maybe something fun.

 

Sam stepped away from the kitchen inset twenty minutes later with three plates and a tray. This Banner guy didn't keep beer but he had some good food stocked down there in this crazy-awesome moisture-free refrigerator. Apparently everything kept forever or something. He set the quesadilla down on the table in between Steve and the computer with a flourish.

 

"Bam. Ranchero quesadilla. That's special recipe chicken in there. Enjoy."

 

Steve hardly looked at it. "Thanks, Sam, but I'm not going to–"

 

"Oh, I know. _I know_. You won't 'til he does. That's why I'm moseying on in there right now with another gourmet friggin' meal and a glass of water. Don't eat mine while I'm gone."

 

Sam wasn't sure what Buck would do this time, but he was going to bring the food anyways. Even if he didn't like the French toast Sam had made for breakfast, he was pretty sure no one could turn down melted cheese and tender chicken, not when it smelled like this. The breakfast plate was still sitting there, untouched where Sam had left it beside Bucky, along with two full glasses of water, neither of which Buck had gotten around to even sipping from. He'd withdrawn pretty steadily since the first meal, but at least down the non-violent path. Really, he seemed to be in shock just then to Sam.

 

"Hey, man. Maybe fried bread was not your thing, but I bet you'll like these." He tore off a corner and didn't even act modest, mm-mmm-ing as he chewed it. "They're called Ranchero quesadillas and they're tasty. Best part? No need for utensils."

 

Bucky looked at him briefly and then turned away, not accepting the plate. Sam set it down in the previous ones place and collected the old dishes. Steve was frowning when he came back into the living space.

 

"You know, Steve, you're like a hundred years old. Maybe a bit of shut eye'll do you some good." He dumped the dishes and then slumped down across from him to dig into his own meal.

 

"I'm fine."

 

"You're not. Don't lie. It's been three days of no sleep, unless you count that semi-catatonic state you fell into last night, which I don't. You need sleep man, even if you're superman or whatever. You're still a man, men sleep."

 

"I will. Eventually." His frown deepened as he leaned closer to the screen "Besides, Bucky hasn't. And why isn't he eating anymore? He ate the egg and bacon, didn't he?"

 

"Yeah, he did. But, recovery's not a one-way street." Sam pushed the no longer steaming plate closer to Steve. "And you're not doing anybody any favors by not being at the top of your game. Just eat and take a break, man. It's not going to hurt anything, 'cept maybe your obstinacy-streak."

 

Of course, _of course_ , when Steve finally caved and took a break, Buck took a turn for the worse. Steve had eaten and gone for a jog and taken a shower to clear his head, while something had snapped in Bucky and his shock symptoms really came to a head, or something. Sam was chewing his thumb nail and staring at the screen when Steve came back out. He was never going to listen to his advice again.

 

"You were right. I actually do feel better."

 

"That's good. I'm glad." Sam did his best not to let his concern leak into his voice. Steve was not fooled.

 

"What is it?"

 

"Oh, nothing we should worry about."

 

Steve's near smile immediately faded and was replaced by alert apprehension. "What happened?" He slid into the chair Sam had just vacated for him.

 

"There's nothing we can do about it, Steve. He's been in shock for a while now, but we can't comfort him. As in, literally can't comfort him because our presence makes it worse. We just have to leave him alone until he works through it."

 

It was a hard truth, but Sam didn't see any way around it. Bucky's twitching and convulsions, the pain and panic on his face was beyond their ability to help. A hug sure wasn't going to do it, and he had a feeling talking it out wasn't an option. Shit out of luck.

 

About thirty minutes into Bucky's fetal position trembling, Steve got up and started pacing in front of the computer. That didn't look like it was going to end any time soon, just like it didn't seem like Buck was going to crawl out of that corner any time soon, so Sam just let it ride. He grabbed his cell and slipped into the med lab outside Buck's cell for some peace and quiet. He'd just reached a new high score on bejeweled when he heard it.

 

At first, Sam thought it was Steve talking to himself again. Then, he realized the voice was too drawling to be Steve's, the words too broken to be his  practice conversations. Buck was talking to himself, or he thought he was talking to someone in that room. He listened hard and felt his skin go cold.  Buck was remembering _something_. It just didn't sound all that great.

 

"Hey, Steve. You should come on here. Now."

 

"Why? What's wrong?"

 

Sam opened the door to the lab all the way and nodded towards the containment room. "He's talking. It's almost intelligible. Come listen, maybe you can make it out."

 

Steve had been watching the screen this whole time. He hadn't seen Bucky move beside shivering. He certainly hadn't seen him talking, but then again, his arms were covering his face. He was at the door in a flash, Sam tugging on his elbow to stop him.

 

"Wait. Let me go in with some fresh water. We don't want to make this about prodding and poking him when he does something new, otherwise he won't again, probably." He retreated to the kitchen and returned with said water. "Just wait in the doorway, yeah? That way you can hear."

 

Steve agreed, not even begrudgingly, and waited out of sight in the doorway. Sam was right. Bucky didn't need to be spooked, especially when he was working things out. Steve definitely had intended to stay obediently in that doorway. Things didn't quite go as planned, though.

 

"Hey, man. Not digging the quesadillas?"

 

Bucky didn't seem to hear Sam. He just kept muttering like they'd heard him doing outside the cell.

 

"Well, I brought some fresh water for you, in case."

 

Still no response. Sam shrugged and collected the dishes, shrugging again when he turned back to Steve. Steve wasn't done, though. He was still listening intently, trying to make sense of what Bucky was mumbling about. The problem was, he wasn't constant about it, or particularly clear in enunciating. Then one of the louder reactions boiled up.

 

Bucky clasped the sides of his head harder and started shaking like he was trying to escape his own hands. "Not right. N–no. C–can't be right. Can't be. Ca–can't. It's–it's–it's not right. Too big. Too bright. Where–where's the–the–the–the cold. The cold?"

 

"The cryo," Steve whispered, realizing Bucky was scared to relax, scared that he'd be put back in cryostasis again.

 

He couldn't let him dread that. It was needless. Before Sam could even process that he'd done it, Steve marched fully into the room and fell right into assuring his friend.

 

"Bucky. Hey, Buck, you're alright."

 

Sam tried to pull Steve away, but he shrugged him off, eyes locked on Bucky's who was looking up at him with the most welcome light in his eyes.

 

"Steve? What are you doing here?" For that moment, the man behind that face was Bucky. His expression was clear, if a little confused, but his eyes were bright and that little curl was there at the corner of his mouth, just in case of potential sarcasm opportunities. But it was just a moment. "What's going on?"

 

The clarity was erased by a blink, his eyes opening confused and full of terror again. He contorted into himself, nearly in a spasm, like that damned electrical current was coursing through him again. It was all too much for Steve to watch and do nothing about. He stepped out of line and raised a hand to comfort his friend, only to be sent tumbling into another wall. It was worse this time, though, or better, because Bucky darted after he lashed out at Steve. He tried running, but only made it to the lab before he was stopped dead and left cowering at the instruments.

 

Crumpled and – what was tenfold worse – whimpering, Steve and Sam helped him back into the cell and left him huddled on the bench with his eyes pinched tightly shut. He was more erratic after that, which Steve decided to take as a good sign. In truth, he was thrumming with hope and nothing could deflate him then. Bucky had been himself through and through for one fleeting moment. Brief though it was, it nonetheless meant that it was possible, that Steve could have Bucky again, that Bucky could recover. The highs and lows that followed could not dampen him to a point lower than mild, empathetic anguish after that.

 

Hilariously, to Sam at least, the ostensible point of their last visit, the water glass, had been shattered in Bucky's memory-recoil. So, after a cool down period of about an hour, Sam had gone in to replace this water glass. Its replacement was quickly shattered as well and Steve found himself stitching up Sam's forehead a minute or so later.

 

"There is nothing quite like being tossed like a ragdoll to make you feel like a man," Sam said, then hissed as Steve hooked the first stitch through.

 

"You were just too slow."

 

"Yeah, yeah. Too slow, too weak, too stupid. It's one of those things. He's got quite an arm on him, wasn't even the robot one. And that's not accounting for the smell. I was distracted. Your boy is rank."

 

All joking aside, suddenly Steve felt anxious. Even if agitated was better than comatose, Bucky's change of reaction towards Sam wasn't an improvement. "He needs to sleep. And eat, really eat, and drink. He's getting paranoid, I think. He trusted you, and then he was lucid, and then now… he's just frantic. We've got to do something."

 

"What about?" Natasha's voice asked, finding its way inside before she did.

 

They'd both turned completely around in their chairs by the time she strolled into the living area.

 

"How'd it go?" The two asked her in unison.

 

Natasha answered in a predictably oblique way. "As it went. You'll find out soon enough on your own. He shutting down?" She jerked a head toward Bucky's room and then began shedding articles of clothing, jacket, shoes, belt, joining Steve at the computer once she was more comfortable.

 

"He's eaten once and has had about ten ounces of water. Hasn't slept. Remembered me and then went berserk, threw Sam, who he'd been trusting, across the room."

 

Natasha appraised Steve with cool eyes as he talked, but didn't say what she was thinking, if she was thinking anything.

 

"Not to mention," Sam added, "he hasn't had a shower in what smells like thirty years. Like, did HYDRA not believe in personal hygiene? I was cleaner in the desert."

 

He received two humorless stares from Natasha and Steve but was unfazed. He continued with a scoff, "feeling clean makes a big difference humanizing a person, and the reverse, de-humanizing. All I'm saying."

 

Natasha was in action-mode. She turned right back to Steve and started suggesting plans. "We can set up an IV drip. He'll get liquid calories, straight to the bloodstream, fluids, and we can put a sedative in there to help him get some sleep. Three birds, one tube."

 

Steve shook his head. "No needles. He doesn't like med equipment. Shuts him down."

 

"A trigger…" Natasha pursed her lips. "I don't blame him for that, not after all he's been through… how about a tranq dart? He won't see it, won't feel it. Or even better, one of the aerosol compounds Banner keeps here? He won't even know."

 

That didn't work for Steve either. "I don't think so," he said. "I don't want to compromise his autonomy any more than it already has been. I don't want to be like them."

 

"We could _ask_ him if minds getting a sleep aide."

 

He shook his head again and Natasha crossed her arms, eyes on the rocking figure on the screen.

 

"Then we wait."

 

The room was silent for a good dozen beats before Sam piped up again. "You know what helps a person sleep? Not being able to smell themselves. Seriously, it's like a zoo enclosure in there, y'all. He might fall asleep when he's clean."

 

He had their attention this time, but only for want of other options. Steve pursed his lips and turned away as soon as Sam was done speaking. Natasha only considered him for a second longer, long enough to dismiss the plan.

 

"I hear you, but it doesn't seem viable, Wilson. Can't make him shower if we can't make him eat or sleep."

 

"Maybe I should go in and talk to him again," Steve's voice mumbled and drew back Natasha's attention. "He responded once, maybe he will again."

 

"Do you really think that'll do more help than harm, Steve? Look at him. He's got walls up and lights off. It'll be flight or fight if you go in there."

 

"We thought that earlier, when he was mumbling, but that was when he recognized me."

 

"Forcing food and water down the man's throat, or a sedative, is one thing, but getting him wet is another. That's like saying the rain takes away your autonomy, plus he might like it and not know it. One time– no, listen…" They weren't listening, but Sam kept on anyways, "one time I hadn't showered for about a week and the idea of being wet was, like, repulsive to me because I was… not in a good place. Anyway, but when I got under that water again, it was almost impossible to keep my eyes open. Didn't even matter that it was so cold my nipples inverted, that was almost better…"

 

Neither of them were listening yet, not even after the nipple comment, so he let it go. When he stopped talking, Steve and Natasha's quiet discussion about triggers died down too, and again they were drowning in silence. It wasn't the good kind of silence, you see, it was the kind you could taste, that had a certain smell to it. This one smacked of hopelessness and exhaustion. Steve was at the end of his optimistic rope again, his moods swinging as erratically as Buck's, and Natasha was struggling with doing nothing.

 

"What do we do?" Steve asked, feeling despondent again. Bucky was tearing at his hair now.

 

Sam snapped behind him and uncrossed his arms, his face the picture of seriousness. Steve felt a little hopeful, maybe he had an idea. Even Natasha  decided to listen with some enthusiasm when he held up a finger like he'd had some sort of epiphany.

 

"I know." He looked between them with a little smile. "We'll just hose him down. You get a pressure washer in there and ten bucks says he'll be at least soaked through when you're done. Maybe that way we can get those clothes off of him, too. They'll need to be burned obviously."

 

Steve blinked at him, feeling a little numb and very disappointed. What was hosing him down going to do besides making him feel more dehumanized? Natasha, however, was seriously weighing the idea, considering the logistics, benefits, and other repercussions.

 

"Yeah," she finally said, "it's a good start. I'll get a hose."

 

"What?! A hose?" Steve was flabbergasted. Flabbergasted and affronted for his friend's dignity. "He's not a dog in the backyard!"

 

"He smells like one," Sam quipped back and Natasha gave him a sympathetic shrug.

 

Outvoted, and not entirely sure he was in the right anyhow, Steve silently anguished over their decision as they prepared. The plan was for him and Sam to go in and ease Bucky into the water, only hold him still if he tried to attack them, let him get sprayed over and then leave him be. It would be like he was caught in a heavy rain shower. Natasha was going to wait outside the door and tranquilize him if need be so he wouldn't hurt himself. It wasn't ideal, taking away some of his volition, but Bucky needed something to be done. For his wellbeing something had to change, and Sam was right, this was the gentlest way of going about that.

 

"You ready?" Sam asked him as they arranged themselves outside the containment room.

 

Steve nodded.

 

"Right. I'll go in first, you behind. Don't hide the hose. We want to be open with all this."

 

"He's had enough kept from him."

 

"Yeah. Okay. One. Two. Three."

 

Sam edged the door open all the way and then slowly inched inside, Steve on his heels with the hose in his hands. Bucky was in the corner of the room still, but stopped his self-abuse to inspect his visitors.

 

"Hey, fella, it's alright. We're just going to hose you down. It won't hurt, it's for your own good, so you'll feel better. You'll be clean."

 

Bucky watched them warily as Steve spoke, his brow crumpled but he didn't flip out. An improvement. He hid behind his hair, though, when Steve handed around the hose to Sam. Jerked further back into the corner, when Sam powered it up. The spray hit Steve first, hard and cold, but not unpleasant, and when Steve didn't react in pain or surprise, Buck seemed to let his walls down some. He watched their interaction so carefully he didn't seem to blink, and when Sam turned and asked if he was okay with trying it out he even nodded.

 

Jammed as hard into the corner as he could manage it, Buck closed his eyes and looked like he was waiting for the spray, in nearly exact imitation of what Steve had done. He jerked when the water first hit him, but within a few seconds his whole body looked like it was cut free of its tense strings. His shoulders loosened, legs slipped to spread in front of him, his face fell smooth and calm. For about two whole minutes the room was very still, only the water moving and making its soft splashing sounds.

 

Sam watched and felt his stomach knot. This poor man. They weren't going to just spray him like a dog in the yard. Steve had been right about that. He was actually enjoying this, it looked like, and they were going to do right by him with this. Steve seemed to be sharing Sam's thoughts, looking wistfully at his friend. Keeping the water in its gentle arch onto Buck's chest, Sam shuffled over to Steve.

 

"We're scrubbing him," he breathed, when Steve looked up at him. "He's likin' this."

 

Steve followed Sam's nod. He was right. There was no arguing that this was the most content they'd seen Bucky so far. Finally, that feral fear had completely drained from his face. It wasn't old Bucky, but it wasn't empty, frantic Bucky either. Something in between. Steve could deal with that. He nodded and then slipped quietly back to the door.

 

Natasha was waiting just out of sight, he face almost anxious. "How's it going?" She asked in a stifled whisper.

 

"Really well, actually. We're thinking of washing him."

 

Her green eyes flashed for a second with something Steve still hadn't learned to identify. "I'll go get some things." She was gone in a wink, returning almost as quickly with a whole slew of hygiene products. She piled the shampoo, soap and shaving stuff into his arms with a shrug.

 

"Banner's a clean person, I guess. Well stocked."

 

Steve handed her back the can of shaving cream and safety razor. "Maybe next time," he whispered and then jogged back to Sam.

 

Natasha knew she was compromising all the progress they'd made by watching Steve head back inside, but she wanted to see what 'really well, actually' looked like. It looked like heart-sickness. At least for her.

 

As a child, she'd really loved penguins. There was one ragged old zoo a few towns away that had had penguins, but they kept them in this underground aquarium-like space where a water tank was buried and the ice stayed hard year round. Then one summer there had been a ground melt and the tank had cracked. The zoo had been forced to move all their penguins into an above ground enclosure. Natasha saw them on one of those days when the sun was shining and the wind was brisk. It wasn't until that moment that she realized how truly miserable those birds had been below ground. The look on one's face was what she found when she checked on 'really well, actually.' It was the immersive relief from years and years of misery.

 

Natasha couldn't stand outside and do nothing once she saw that look again. "Psst," she waved at Steve when he turned back around from arranging the products. "Want some help?"

 

The face Steve made was priceless, some combination of horror and embarrassment. "He's going to be nude," he whispered back, scandalized.

 

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Let me put my hair in a bandana and put on a holomask. I'll help."

 

When she came creeping inside the room, they still hadn't moved. Bucky still looked like that ecstatic penguin with its head thrown back, soaking in the sunshine and the fresh breeze, except for him it was the euphoria of being touched, cool, clean water washing over him. Natasha knew what she needed to do; she was going to wash his hair, make human contact something welcomed again. Steve and Sam hadn't seemed to have come to so quick a conclusion about their roles, however. They were standing huddled together, bickering in hushed tones, with small gestures of bigger meaning. The water was, thankfully, still on Bucky, who truly looked like he couldn't care less what was happening around him. As long as that water was there he was not trapped in that body.  

 

Maybe he wasn't, Natasha realized after a second, maybe he was finally asleep. She snapped quietly at the boys and pointed at Bucky. Sam and Steve froze and then each peered more carefully at him. They exchanged a hopeful glance before Sam handed Steve the hose.

 

Squatting down a foot or so away from Bucky, he quietly – quietly enough to not have woken him – asked, "hey, man, you alright with us scrubbin' you?"

 

Bucky opened his eyes immediately, clearly not asleep, only content. With those changed eyes he considered each of them in turn, calculation in each glance now, its companions confusion and alarm set aside if only temporarily. After a second pass, he closed them again and laid his hands palms up on either side of his legs. Natasha basically felt Steve wince beside her at the sign of submission, but it was an improvement. He was communicating again, that was his carefully thought out answer to Wilson's question.

 

At a nod from Steve, they each started on their own tasks. Natasha took the hose from Sam and ran it directly into Bucky's scalp as the other two worked on removing his gear, Sam on the boots, Steve the vest. It took a while, unfastening all that leather and metal, and the two of them were still working on the top layers when Natasha first worked some shampoo into his hair. He jumped, full of shock and fear as her fingers touched his scalp but Steve and Sam quickly calmed him down again. Them and the feeling of having his hair washed, no doubt. Natasha knew the sensation, the way it could make your whole body melt, that's why she chose to do it.

 

He was completely placid as they worked the rest of the clothing off of him down to his underwear. His head was heavy against her hands, leaning into her fingers. It made her eyes sting.

 

"Maybe a hug would have done it." Sam's voice made her look up. He and Steve were knelt, the soaked clothes piled around them, brows knitted as they looked at Bucky. He was bodily leaning against Natasha's legs at this point, her balance supporting them both. He might have been asleep.

 

"I think this is enough," Steve mumbled. "We can wash him like this."

 

Natasha gave his hair one more rinse over to get the shampoo out and handed the hose over to Sam, then decided he needed another lather. She worked the fresh glob of shampoo into a froth again while Steve started scrubbing down Bucky's chest. Sam kept a steady stream of water around his middle and his mouth in a tight line. If it was even possible, Bucky slumped even more heavily onto Natasha's legs until she had to stagger her stance to stay on her feet.

 

Once his hair was adequately cleaned to her eye and the strands squeaked between Natasha's fingers, she joined Steve in scouring the inestimable years of grime from Bucky's skin. She took his face and neck and back, foregoing washcloth in favor of her hands, feeling that the contact would be more soothing, massaging as she washed. Steve stuck to the cloth, though, washing with precision and clouded eyes. None of them said a word during the whole remainder of the event, they really hardly moved from their positions besides to get a better angle to scrub. Bucky certainly didn't budge or fight, he was like putty under their hands, only swaying when they nudged him or gently pushing back when they rubbed harder.

 

Steve and Natasha worked for a while and they were still only somewhat finished. The water at their feet was dingy and thick, but the skin they'd worked already was pink and shining. When Natasha reached the shoulder, the left shoulder where flesh met metal she had to stop. The scarring was abhorrent, made her skin crawl and the stinging in her eyes spread to a tightness in her throat and chest. Leaving the rest to Steve, saying it was more appropriate for a friend, she stepped from the room as calmly as she could. It wasn't calm enough. She sprinted the last five steps through the door and her resolve crumpled under her holomask over the threshold.

 

Sam watched her go and envied her her decision. This was not the brilliant idea he'd imagined it to be. It was good for Buck, sure, but it made Sam feel very small and weak, like he was suddenly far away and long ago. He didn't like that feeling. Focusing on the water, he kept Buck under the spray and handed Steve what he requested. Seeing Steve handle the arm was the worst. His face was set like stone but his eyes were soft and melting, hands shaking. He couldn't blame him. The obvious medical horror that had happened to create that fusion of man and machine was gut-wrenching. But there was more to it than that for Steve, Sam knew that. He was feeling the pain of rending skin and muscle and sinew, the searing blade of cauterized flesh and bone, the guilt again. He was mourning the loss for Bucky and re-suffering it along with him.

 

He washed the metal arm, too, treating it just like the other with the same fastidiousness and care. Turned out, it could shine like skin. The red star didn't come off with soap and water. They switched places once Steve had gotten Buck's torso clean, Sam standing behind Buck to keep him propped up while Steve washed his legs. He'd given up the washcloth up at Buck's stomach, the rag completely soiled, and was soaping up his hands till you couldn't see them anymore. Sam could tell he was uncomfortable with it, and struggling with being uncomfortable with it, but not why. Buck didn't seem to mind. With his hair pushed out of his face, he actually looked like the soldier in the photos Sam had seen in textbooks as a kid. Maybe that was Steve's anguish then, that this was beginning to look more like his friend but not quite act like him. From what Sam had read, James Buchanan Barnes was not the kind to sit idly and let another person scrub him clean. He took care of Steve, he wasn't taken care of by him.

 

In truth, Steve was in turmoil over what he felt under his hands, the invisible filth and grime, the scars. He was disgusted and was fighting over letting that show on his face. He'd seen Bucky after weeks of torture and captivity, covered in sweat and dirt, but this was different. This was an insidious layer of extra skin, filmed over and stubborn, like it had become a part of him that Steve was sloughing away. With the uniform stripped away, Bucky hadn't _looked_ that ill-kempt. He wasn't muddy or bloodied, just his skin a little dull and rough. It became clear, though, that was not from care but from sweat and abrasion of the gear, maybe the wiping down of doctors or technicians. Surface maintenance. If he'd _looked_ clean, they'd let him be, never cared to see if he _felt_ clean.

 

Just as he was reaching Bucky's feet Natasha reappeared in her mask with some towels and clothes and nail clippers. She put a pair in Steve's hand and then squatted beside Bucky's right hand. The rhythmic, click, click, click that followed calmed everyone in the room, Steve included. He finished with the washing and gave Bucky a once over rinse before tossing aside the hose and picking up the clippers. As Sam rolled up the hose and Natasha collected up the soaps Steve resumed the click, click, click, looking up at last to find Bucky watching him.

 

It wasn't a cold stare, or even confused. He was simply watching, like he was curious. Steve ducked his chin and finished with the last toe. Natasha handed him a few towels and then started drying the room with a smaller one. Steve draped one around Bucky's shoulders and held on to the others as back-up as he toweled him down. Bucky kept his eyes open for this part, watching them but never making eye contact. He cooperated easily, holding out arms and leaning forward when he needed to. He even climbed to his feet when Steve asked him to, everyone else looking to the floor as he stood like a child and let Steve peel his soaked-through underwear off of him.

 

Steve worked with his body on auto piolet, not seeing or feeling or thinking about what was happening. Or trying not to. He used up all the towels drying Bucky off, tossing the dripping ones away once they started doing more wetting than drying. Eventually, though, he got him dry and helped him step into clean clothing. The degree of cooperation Bucky showed was incredible, but Steve couldn't put his finger on its source, so he kept his relief over it quelled. In fact, they were all shocked as they found that they were almost finished and it had gone as it did. They'd expected a battle not a surrender.

 

Natasha handed Steve a comb and set about picking up the gear and clothing. Sam was right, they were going to burn it, but not for the reason he'd joked about. He was, meanwhile, kicking around the towels, mopping up the rest of the water that shouldn't be there. Neither of them wanted to leave, but they also didn't want to watch. Steve was just barely getting by, but it needed to be him combing Bucky's hair, even with shaking hands. At least Buck wasn't following them with those baleful eyes anymore. Staring at his hands wasn't much better, admittedly.

 

With nothing else left to be done, Natasha watched out of the corner of her eye. Bucky's expressions and reactions were a little more varied now, a little more interpretable. If she had to guess, she would have said he was moving out of shock and into an evaluation of his situation. As she was pondering that, he moved past his hands and began examining the shirt Steve had pulled onto him. He rubbed the fabric between his good fingers and then glanced up to look around. She knew he was waking on another level, there was realization in his eyes. That realization contained a question, he didn't know where he was, but he wasn't confused by that or scared, he was simply inquisitive.

 

"Where's Pierce?" He asked quietly but firmly.

 

Steve and Sam both jumped in surprise. Natasha only waited, eyes locked on him. His stillness was of a different type now, he was poised, loaded to fire. Whatever look Sam and Steve shared, Bucky followed and then waited. Sam spoke first, to Steve's appall.

 

"He's dead."

 

Natasha knew that Sam's wasn't a great choice of response, but she wasn't immediately sure that it was the wrong choice, like Steve appeared to think. He sat bolt upright, comb hovering a few inches away from Bucky's scalp, eyes wide and cautious. Bucky's reaction, however, was the truly interesting one. A flurry of emotions flickered over his face. Most were unclear to even Natasha, but there was what she was sure was a dark kind of smile around his eyes at one moment. He had definitely moved out of the stupor. Those cogs were turning again.

 

"Who is the commander now?"

 

This time no one blurted out a response. The answer wasn't so easy. Steve did nod to Sam at last, though, the decision left to him.

 

"You don't have one anymore. That's all gone, you're free of it. HYDRA's gone."

 

Bucky lashed out at that, protocol clearly running through his mind. Natasha knew them: eliminate captors, ascertain status independently, return to base, even if it's a fallout zone. You never just give up and admit annihilation. Bucky was only halfway there, something was holding him back from following that, besides Steve.

 

He had blocked the strike effortlessly, clamped Bucky's arms to his side and bear-hugged him still too easily in Natasha's opinion. Part of Bucky was helping him. Indeed, he sagged from resistance far quicker than he would have before the bathing session. Either he was beginning to truly trust them or he was plotting, banking on them becoming complaisant. It was a toss-up. Unless his eyes could be trusted, but Natasha didn't know well enough yet to say. So, she just watched them tear up with utter indifference.

 

Sam was less difficult to convince. He felt bad for the guy, knelt down to fill him in. He wasn't as in the know as these other two, but he would do his best.

 

"I don't know what you've been told, or what you've been through and made to believe, but I think I can tell that you're struggling with it. This is my way of seeing it, do with it what you will. HYDRA was a Nazi organization, back in the second World War. Where I'm from and how I was raised, racist, elitist sadists, who lock up people who are different and experiment on them and the rest, aren't the good guys. But that's a personal call.

 

"Anyway, HYDRA and all your handlers and commanders operated under that ethic, followed that legacy. They did a bunch of shady stuff, ruined a lot of people's lives, killed even more. Me and Steve and… others just stopped them from killing millions because they were _potential_ threats. I'm of the opinion you watch out for potential threats, you don't eliminate them in case, but again, that's just me."

 

Bucky was listening to Sam like his life depended on it. When he paused, he actually leaned forward. Steve had to confirm.

 

"Violence is a last resort, at any rate, or I think it should be."

 

"Right, so they were being a little premature with the slaughtering and killing, but then again, that's historically been their M.O. They've done other stuff, too… uh you're here because of them, and I don't mean lucky to be here because of them. I mean… well, to be honest, you're a victim of them as much as all the rest. You've… lost things because of them."

 

"Your arm for one," Steve said.

 

"Right, your arm." Sam pointed to the metal one and cleared his throat. "So far as we know you lost it in a fall from a HYDRA train… and then one of their scientists welded that one on."

 

He waited for Bucky to react but he didn't. His face merely twitched and then stilled, waiting for more information.

 

"And your memories. We're pretty sure they took those from you using electro–" Bucky's glance stopped Natasha short. He didn't require her finishing that statement, he already knew.

 

"Yeah, your memories were zapped out, they froze you for long periods of time… which you clearly also know about. But the thing is, all that was unnecessary, you didn't need to remember nothing, to sleep for decades at a time and lose your life, feel your volition wrenched from you. They treated you like–or, we _think_ that they treated you like just another tool, using you up for their own ends and to no benefit of your own."

 

"And who are you? How are you different?"

 

Steve winced but Sam plowed right on.

 

"Well, we're not HYDRA, that's for sure. I mean, yes, we did capture you and stick you in some cells and… uh… take away a few of your personal liberties, but not to use you, or hurt you, or anything. That was to protect you, if you'll believe that, and admittedly us too, but that's because you were a little–"

 

"Unstable," Bucky filled in clinically.

 

"Yeah… that. It's all because Steve cares about you, we all do. We want you to be a person again, be free and safe and healthy. No ulterior motive there, really. No government division we're working under. Not anymore. It's just the three of us. Two soldiers and… a… an intelligence specialist."

 

Natasha could tell Sam didn't like lying, but it was only partially untrue, by omission, and at that moment, unfortunately necessary. Bucky was struggling with something different. His words, when he spoke again, were halting and forced alternatively.

 

"What… am I here for?… What… what's my next mission? Or am I going to–to sleep?"

 

The realization dawned over their faces instantly and then dissolved into different emotions. Steve was heartsick, Sam disgusted. Natasha herself felt resigned. He was afraid to do things because of conditioning. She'd been right; he was a circus bear. To his mind he was either waiting to go out on a mission, something to actively do while torturing what was left of his morality caged inside of him, or to be put in cryostasis, something inflicted on him, the ultimate passive state, sleep by others' will.

 

Steve was the one who finally responded. "You don't have any more missions. You're being discharged."

 

_That_ was the wrong thing to say. Natasha reached for her rear holster, the one with the tranq pistol as Bucky's eyes lit up with panic. The tranq gun wasn't needed, but they did spend the next ten minutes trying to convince Bucky that he had nothing to fear. Eventually, it dawned on them that he thought being discharged meant being put down, and they told him he was being relieved of service, to clarify, but that did little to help. Nor did telling him that he wasn't an asset anymore. It wasn't until Natasha added 'unless you still want to work' that he stopped internally fracturing.

 

"He's scared of being useless," she muttered when both Sam and Steve gazed at her in wonder. "I know the feeling. Useless means… dead."

 

Steve nodded. "You can do whatever you want. If you want to help, you can. We could use your help. You'd be very useful."

 

The trembling lip and upturned brow of an abandoned child returned to Bucky's face as he looked back at Steve. It was painful to watch.

 

"Useful. Absolutely, and you don't have to… go to sleep longer than you want to. You won't be sleeping in…the cold again. You have a bed. See?" He pointed to the cot across the room with a weak smile. "A bed… and no restraints."

 

Bucky looked around the room. "I can sleep in here?"

 

They all just nodded, the words knocked from Steve by the wonder in Bucky's question. He nodded back with them and then eased himself off the bench and back into his corner, where he curled into a fetal position and shut his eyes. Steve was stricken still by the move, Sam didn't quite know how to respond, so he just stared. He stared at Bucky and then at Natasha who stormed out of the room like there was a fire under her ass.

 

"Maybe try the cot instead?" He suggested weakly.

 

The cot came under close scrutiny as Bucky sat up and eyed it from across the room. He stood slowly after Sam nodded his encouragement and looked back at Steve for assurance. He was just about to creep over to it when Natasha blew back in with an armload of blankets and couch cushions and started making up the cot into an actual-looking bed. Bucky approached her with a spurt of casual ease and picked up a couch cushion. Natasha didn't notice the sudden change in demeanor, angrily busy as she was, but Sam and Steve sure did. They both froze and waited.

 

Bucky turned the cushion over in his hands and then looked back at Steve with a scoff and almost a grin. "Couch cushions," he muttered, lips curling only to drop. That haunted confusion returned and it was like the past seven hours hadn't happened. He didn't know where he was, he didn't know who they were, he didn't know anything. He even gawked at his left arm in shock.

 

Steve was there in an instant, rushing to catch Bucky before he collapsed, to ease him to the cot before the convulsions got too bad. Even Natasha was blindsided. She and Sam stood rooted to the spot as Bucky, the calculating one all sharp stares and weighted questions devolved into the shivering mumbling mess on the camp bed. Once he leveled out some, his eyes, the size of dinner plates and shining with tears, found Steve and focused on him full of anguish.

 

"I know you," he said, voice breaking. "How do I know you?"

 

If Sam had ever questioned Steve's strength and resolve before, he certainly wouldn't have after his response. Steve put on his brave face and held it, even as Bucky withered into pain and turmoil. Not even after Bucky folded inward on himself did Steve's mask slip.

 

"I can't remember. I can't remember," came the mantra, chanted as if it would become untrue by saying it. Bucky repeated it with lessening fervor, his hands covering his face, body contorted to cover his hands.

 

Steve sighed. That was the only allowance he slipped, and then he stood and covered Bucky with the blankets.

 

"I'll show you some photographs in the morning. That might help. For now, I wouldn't worry about it. I'd just try to get some rest."

 

And that's exactly what Steve did. After one last glance that told him Bucky was finally asleep, he powered down the lab, the computer and the containment room and then headed to the bedroom. He showered once more for good measure and finally passed clean out on the couch. Sam and Natasha flipped a coin for first shift. Sam lost.

 


	4. SLEEP and SHELTER

Despite being so sorely needed, sleep that night was hardly a true respite for anyone in Dr. Banner's bunker. Most of that had been because of Bucky's own extremely loud and fitful sleep, but the last few days' ordeal had not been his alone. Sam had lost the coin toss with Natasha and therefore 'won' the first 'Bucky watch' between the two of them. Steve was already snoring thunderously on the couch and, besides other reasons, therefore immune from sharing the duty. So, Sam had taken the computer and a few snacks and kicked up his feet in the darkened lab room. He was only there until one, but that gave him plenty of time to sit, and listen, and ruminate.

 

Watching Bucky had reminded him of a bunch of cases he'd seen in the VA, but most of all it made him think about Riley. His wingman, his friend, they'd looked out for each other over there. It wasn't a huge logical jump to think about him while he was watching Steve and Bucky. He had wondered what he would do if he had found himself in Steve's position and Riley in Bucky's. It didn't make for an upbeat span of hours. Bucky's violent thrashing and screaming didn't help one bit. By the time Natasha stalked into the room, looking haunted herself, Sam damn well felt like he was seeing ghosts. Bucky's, Steve's, his own, he didn't know, but his head was in a bad spot.

 

He was in no state to try to fall asleep, that was for sure. He'd close his eyes and see Riley, leave them closed long enough and he'd be out there in the open, exo-suit wide and sailing, sky blue-black and stars like diamonds. Then the 'pfoom' would sound, the ground-to-air ballistic firing and Riley would end the night for a brief minute, plummeting to the earth like a falling sun. Every time Sam felt like he was falling, too, and he'd wrench himself from that half-sleep, right on the edge, and tell himself that it was just Bucky, punching the wall and knocking his nightmares away as well.

 

Natasha, meanwhile, who'd 'won' the coin toss had really lost and not gotten a wink of sleep. In reality, she hadn't been tired to begin with, only weary. Weary and full of questions and doubts, bad tastes and double-guesses. Bucky was just the cherry on top of the sundae, things were not good and he was a symptom of the cold hard truth. It was a glaring, monstrous truth she should have seen if she hadn't been nearly as brainwashed as him. Again. And so, with no sleep and more wearying things to chew over, she'd taken over the watch from Sam and listened to her regrets incarnate scream and thrash.

 

And did he. Bucky sounded like he was fighting a battle in there and the walls were losing. She was surprised that Steve was snoring just a door away, that Bucky himself hadn't bestirred on his own from the racket. They both must've been utterly exhausted. It was enlightening to listen to, as morbid as that seemed. Natasha felt she knew a great deal more about Bucky as the night petered off to morning. Disturbing things, private things, but most of all, she knew that he was remembering.

 

That was his past he was battling, again. Steve's name made frequent cameos, as did snippets of Russian and even German. Bucky was remembering it all, at least his dreaming self was. His biggest ghost was 'the chair'. It showed up time and again to choruses of whimpers, moans and raging roars, it showed up in every language, with its consort 'please, no' and its monstrous child 'yes, sir'. Natasha didn't know Bucky, but after a few hours of hearing his darkest fears, she poignantly wanted to take care of him, hug him even. She quietly thanked no one in particular that she _hadn't_ slept that night. God knew she was no stranger to such fears and their sticky cling and cold claws in sleep. With the way things were, she'd probably have shared Bucky's fate that night.

 

Steve certainly was. He had one dark regret, one thing that was undeniably, incontrovertibly his greatest mistake and failure, completely avoidable and completely his fault. Bucky's fall. He dreamt of it on loop that night. As peaceful as his snoring coma seemed, he was just as restless and panicked as Bucky in his dreamscape. It was the same minute of his life time and again. The first was pure memory: Bucky with Steve's shield, the blinding pulse of blue, Steve's grasping desperation, the reach and then Bucky falling, screaming, and shrinking to nothing, leaving Steve drowning in grief and unable to succumb to it or come up for air. Once Steve couldn't see Bucky anymore, the dream started over. Steve was on the ground and he knew what would come next and that it was a dream, and yet he could do nothing different. It wasn't until he was hanging out of the ragged gash of the train car, leaning as far as he could towards Bucky, straining and crying, did it change. He almost reached him. Their fingertips brushed. Then it was the same. The same until it started over. And again.

 

Again and again Steve relived Bucky's fall. Again and again it changed a little so that Steve was ever so much closer to saving him, but never quite close enough. The last time was somehow worse than the first. He'd managed to climb out farther on the busted wall of the car. Bucky was reaching as far as he could to him, his face a mask of fear and pain, but Steve was determined. This time, _this time_ he was going to catch him. And he did. He caught hold of Bucky's hand, hard and fast, linking fingers around his wrist. He'd done it. This time Bucky wouldn't fall. It was with relief and joy that Steve wrenched backwards toward the train, hauling Bucky up. Those emotions were but fleeting bursts, shot down when Steve felt the sickening pop, the slackening and then a little jerk back as he load lightened. He looked down to find Bucky's arm, but no Bucky. He'd ripped it clean off of him and left Bucky to plummet once again towards the ground, bleeding and mutilated.

 

_It_ was _your fault_ , Zola's voice echoed around him and Steve awoke with a start. He whipped around and found himself on a couch in the dark, warm and covered in a fine sheen of sweat, not lying in a pool of blood on a ruined train, cold, with a hole in his soul. As real as that all felt, solid and somewhat familiar, Steve had to drag himself to his feet and go to Bucky to make sure. He had to see Bucky. Sam was frowning and twitching in his sleep as Steve padded silently past him. He knew how he was feeling.

 

Natasha was waiting for him, barring his way, a spectral face in the dark of the lab. He decided she was much more welcoming in day light than bottom-lit by a computer screen as he tiptoed up. He also decided that she looked worse for wear too.

 

"Couldn't sleep?" He asked, knowing the answer from the dark circles under her eyes.

 

"Not at all." She tapped a few buttons and the lights came up. Setting aside the computer she reached instead for a now-visible pot and mugs. "Coffee?"

 

Steve considered it and then finally relented. It sounded like a welcome boost. If not actually helpful, at least as a memory of its usefulness. He filled a cup and sat.

 

"He's still sleeping," Natasha said and spun the laptop to face him. "And he's fine, physically, but he's had nightmares since I came out here. I bet if we ask Sam when he wakes up, he'll tell us they started during his shift. Terrible nightmares, Steve. Screaming and twisting and fighting."

 

He studied Bucky doing just what she was describing as Natasha continued.

 

"And the things he's been shouting, Steve… small wonder he's as broken as he is. I know I told you about the science behind the wipes, but numbers and impersonal statistics are one thing, case studies are another. He _remembers_."

 

Steve looked up, found Natasha's eyes almost grey and small with disgust. "He remembers? Remembers what?"

 

"Everything… I think, or it sounds that way, but I was talking about the electroshocks. It's worse than he realizes that he's lost memories. He remembers the way they were taken from him. He was screaming about 'the chair' throughout everything. It _hurt_ , made him beg and plead and cry, and left him weak and empty and compliant, and he remembers how all that felt, remembers going through it."

 

Steve had had a small, dark feeling that was the case. Wondered if Bucky felt ghost-shocks when he'd had spasms the day before. Hearing confirmation made his temper roil.

 

"If I remembered that, I'd be scared shitless too. Of that room, of these instruments, of everything." Her face grew hard, "And I'd want to rip the world apart to make sure it never happened again… or end it myself, for good. I don't know."

 

She shivered and Steve fought the urge to share it with her.

 

"But, he may not remember it when he wakes up, maybe not all of it, maybe not any of it. He may repress it or deny it or be crushed by it. I don't know. If this is really the first time he's slept out of cryo there's a possibility it’s the first time his mind has had a chance to heal and refresh and reprocess things. This may be the first he's recovered these memories. Possibly in decades, possibly since he was first wiped. We can't know."  
 

Natasha sipped at her coffee and listened to Bucky in a particularly raucous bout of thrashing before continuing.

 

"My guess is that that's not the case, but rather that he'd slept and remembered before or there wouldn't be so much available, but then they wiped him soon after so he never really got to come to terms with it. I think the shocks only reach so deep though. They're not permanent, obviously, in any case. He's accessing memories now, even if subconsciously. Sometimes that's how it starts."

 

She looked away quickly and added, "at least, that's how the worst stuff started coming back for me."

 

Steve had listened to Natasha all the way through, put her words to heart, but one thing in particular stuck with him: that she'd be afraid of this place they were in. That room would remind Bucky when he woke up only of his past, there was nothing new or even far old and familiar about cold, blank, white walls. They were sterile and impersonal and probably screamed 'experiments happen here! We'll run electricity through your brain until you can't remember how many fingers you should have!.' This anteroom was even worse with its needles and scalpels and gaping black gulfs of dead computer monitors.

 

He got up immediately and started collecting blankets and towels and sheets.

 

"Uh… what are you– oh." Natasha followed him in covering the gear as soon as she realized why he was doing it. "Planning on moving him?"

 

"Planning on letting him out."

 

"Are you sure that's a good idea, Rogers?"

 

She didn't call him by his surname anymore. It gave him pause. "You don't, but, yes, I do. You said yourself that room would scare you. I don't want that for Bucky, if he does remember."

 

Natasha appeared to struggle with that for a beat, but soon gave Steve a single, quick nod. "He's proved pretty easy to calm with you, and he was docile yesterday for the most part. I also think the sooner he learns to start doing things, real human things again, the better. But what if he's regressed overnight, hmm? What if he's catatonic again when he wakes?"

 

"I won't change my mind," Steve was set and insistent. "Even if that only means sitting out here and staring at a different wall, I won't have him locked up in a cell, staring at tile and metal like a window to his past and constantly dreading that electroshock chair. I won't."

 

He threw a sheet over the final cluster of consoles and gadgets and stepped back, jaw set, daring Natasha to challenge him.

 

She didn't. Instead she smiled. "Alright. Let's get him out here. First thing's first though, where will we all sleep?"

 

Banner's bunker had only one bedroom with one bed. Besides that, there was the one couch in the living area and then the one cot in the containment room. With Bucky no longer sleeping in that containment room and his watch therefore eliminated, the next night would suddenly have four sleepers with exactly half that number of sleeping spaces. That was unless of course one of them was willing to sleep on the cot instead of Bucky or share the bed with someone else.

 

Steve and Natasha quickly decided that it would be best to put Bucky in the bedroom, so that way he was a little confined and his nightmares muffled a little for the rest of them. Steve then valiantly volunteered to sleep on the cot or the floor so Natasha and Sam could split the couch and its cushions between the two of them, but Natasha insisted otherwise, saying she'd gladly lock herself in that containment room and sleep like the dead with Banner's sedative gas.

 

"We'll see," Steve had ended their quibbling diplomatically. "Bucky may not want to come out, or to sleep in the bedroom, or to sleep at all. Speaking of… we still have to get him out here."

 

Natasha shrugged. "Let's just open the door and leave it open. He'll come out when he wants."

 

They did just that, but it didn't exactly work out as expected. That should have been no surprise. But Steve and Natasha were fretting, proposing solutions, and shooting them down in fear of triggers in turns several hours later, when Bucky sat up, awake and staring at the open door. And then, to their dismay, he didn't move a muscle.

 

Sam shuffled out, still tired and grumpy, to the sounds of them volleying 'what ifs.'

 

"…from the dreams and has mixed those up with now? Or if we go in and he suddenly remembers the kill order on us? What then?" Steve said over a steaming griddle. It smelled like he was making pancakes.

 

Natasha was laying out silverware at the table, a coffee cupped attached to her other hand like it had grown there naturally. She saw Steve's hypothetical dilemma and raised him a hypothetical disaster. "It's also completely possible trying to lead him out here physically could trigger his asset training in general. That could go both ways or either, murderous or comatose, one then the other. Oh, Wilson, good morning."

 

"Mornin'." He looked from their haggard expressions to the computer screen and realized what they'd been digging the conditional graves over. "Why is that door open? Why is Buck just sitting in there while you two are in here, talking potentials like two physics professors? Hmm?"

 

After they only stared at him for a few seconds, Sam rolled his eyes and marched into the room. There didn't seem to be any reason to be freaking out over triggers. Buck was just waiting. The shaking and mumbling had stopped, were replaced by a watchful stillness that was either a good sign or scary as hell. So, maybe they weren't unfounded in their hesitance. Either way, Sam was already neck deep in it, so he strutted inside bold as brass.

 

Buck sat up a little straighter as Sam entered, and he thought there might be a bit of expectancy there, maybe some relief at seeing him. He _had_ been staring at that doorway like he was waiting for someone to come through it and retrieve him, or shut it.

 

"Hey, man, how'd you sleep? Horrible nightmares? Yeah, I heard, me too. Want some breakfast?" He blurted it all out in one breath, a little impatient perhaps.

 

Buck was slower going with things, as Sam should have expected. He considered Sam carefully from head to toe and then returned to his face. Sam was almost surprised with the directness when Buck looked him straight in the eye and then held it.

 

"I know him," he said, his voice sullen, but not nearly the empty echo or sharp relay it had been the past few days. Sam heard conviction in it, and a bit of a Brooklyn drawl. It was different. "He's a good man."

 

He couldn't help but chuckle. The first thing this guy has said that's really from him was about Steve, and stating the obviously. Same cloth. Sam held out his hand and gave Buck a smile, also a first. Unfortunately, they weren't quite there yet. Buck only stared at Sam's hand, instead of taking it and standing up. He did quirk his head a little at the grin, though. Sam dropped his arm and sighed.

 

"Yeah, he is. You wanna eat some pancakes that good man is making? You can, if you want. Just out there." He pointed to the door and, after Buck followed with his gaze, walked out from the room. He didn't look behind to see if Buck was following. If he was, Sam didn't want to give him the impression of being checked up on. If he wasn't, no point.

 

He strolled through the lab anteroom, glad that all the tech and med shit was covered, and then into the kitchen. Steve and Natasha looked up immediately from the computer with questions on their faces.

 

"What did you say to him?"

 

"I told him Mr. Good Man here was making pancakes. Is that ok–"

 

Suddenly, the usually cool, calm, and collected Natasha was scrambling. "Oh, shit."

 

"Shit!" Sam echoed her when he saw the room on the screen was empty. He hadn't expected Buck to follow _that_ quickly. Damn, he was good. But this was bad. Buck did not respond well to Natasha before, and now she was caught in the living space exposed.

 

She was hurrying around, rifling through bags and piles of junk on counters to find her holomask. Buck was way too quick for that, though. He no sooner saw her than he was that assassin from the street again, chin lowered, eyes cold, movements deliberate and chilling. Before even Steve could react Buck had darted at her, taking a huge swing and, thankfully, missing.

 

As Natasha bounded away, Buck squared up to her, following her every move but not responding to them. He just made sure he was in between her and Steve. When Sam realized that he audibly gasped.

 

"Hey! Hey, it's okay, I swear! Nat's not gonna hurt Steve, man. We're all friends here."

 

Steve's eyes widened as he caught on and, with Sam, he stepped back in front of Buck, hands raised. "Yeah, she's not an enemy. We're friends, allies."

 

Buck looked at Steve as he spoke but then went directly back to glowering at Natasha. He didn't move, luckily. Natasha remained eerily still but poised. Sam had seen that same taut stillness in Buck. No wonder he didn't trust Natasha, she was a lot like him, asset-him. There was a very tense minute or so there, when Sam was almost certain Buck was going to hurl them away and then tear Natasha to pieces, if he could catch her. Then, Steve did something crazy.

 

He reached out and grabbed Buck's arm, his real one just below the shoulder, and shook it gently, like you would to stir someone from a bad dream. "Really. She's on our side. We're all safe in here together."

 

Buck looked like the world was changing colors in front of his eyes and turned his gaze on Steve instead. Natasha sighed loudly behind them. By the time Sam twisted around enough to see what she was doing, she had already stripped her jacket and three hidden holsters.

 

"The shit I do for some people," she grumbled and proceeded to remove another five weapons and the outer layers of her clothing. When she was down to cottons and there weren't any hiding places left, Natasha turned around and laid her hands on the wall, up above her head like she was ready for a pat down. "Frisk me, if you don't believe him."

 

"See?" Sam said releasing a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "She's not going to do anything."

 

Steve felt distinctly exposed as he waited for the tension to either dissolve or explode. He felt like they were in the middle of a standoff, despite Natasha having turned away and neither of them being armed. But, that was the thing. Neither of them needed weapons to be armed. They were deadly on their own, two landmines. Natasha was less of a loose cannon, but she was big on survival, whatever the cost. Or she had been.

 

And poor Bucky, he was so clearly conflicted. There was a battle raging in his head and what was going on out here in the world wasn't helping. Steve could see the different sides gaining the upper hand just from the twitching and shifting of Bucky's face and eyes. When things settled in there and the calmer side seemed to win, Steve released his arm.

 

He found Bucky looking at Natasha with more inquisitiveness than fury, so he nodded his head and pointed towards her. "Go on. You can go check. That's why she's standing there that way."

 

Bucky followed Steve's suggestion and began edging warily across the room. For a moment, Steve was relieved. That was until Bucky stopped. When he started back towards Natasha it wasn't a creeping inching forward of caution, it was the slow, wide strides of determination. He was moving like he had on mission. He was going to kill her.

 

Both Sam and Steve let out strangled shouts of warning, maybe a yelp here or there, too, especially when Bucky snatched up one of Natasha's knives from the table. It didn't matter. Natasha was far too fast for him just then. Her elbow flashed down and then up and into Bucky's nose just as soon as he was in range. While he was reeling, Natasha skirted, smooth as water, around Bucky and swept his legs. She only managed to knock one out from under him, but as he was falling to that knee, her ankles clamped around his shoulder out of nowhere and flipped him bodily to the ground. By the time Steve had figured out which limbs were whose, Natasha was sitting on Bucky's throat and he was looking at her like she'd grown an extra head.

 

Buck might have been literally breathless in that moment but so was Sam. "Holy shit," he muttered. "Holy shit, that was amazing."

 

Buck seemed the think so too, because he just laid there and stared up at her. Maybe he was flabbergasted by what had just happened or found it excruciatingly attractive like Sam did, but he wasn't angry. He didn't wrench her off and hurl her across the room like he and Steve expected. He was surprised, and he stared at her with wide eyes that said he wasn't sure what was happening.

 

Natasha saw the change in his face as she was flipping him. It had changed instantaneously like he was literally a switch she'd flipped. So, she knew that he wouldn't hurt her when she finished knocking him on his ass. The landing was more to hammer home a point than anything.

 

"If I'd wanted to hurt you," she sighed, when the look in his eyes geared towards fear from shock, "I would've landed with my knees on your throat instead."

 

He was considering her with yet a different expression when she hopped to her feet. This one Natasha would've labelled curiosity if she presumed to know what was going on in that poor, scrambled brain of his. He wasn't hurt. As in, really wasn't; his nose wasn't even bleeding, and she'd hammered her joint into it so hard her elbow was throbbing. That was disconcerting but she had to take it as a good thing. This way he couldn't grudge her as someone who'd injured him.

 

Steve and Wilson seemed to be in as much shock as Bucky had been. Even he snapped out of it quicker than they did, scrambling to his feet and backing away from her.

 

"Are… are you okay?" Steve finally managed to ask. "Both of you?"

 

"Peachy," Natasha replied, watching Bucky nod from the corner of her eye. That was also good, him responding.  
 

He acted like a scolded child the rest of the morning, though, at least towards Natasha. He skirted the edge of the room to get around her just then, and afterwards, every time she or he moved, he gave her a wide berth. She was also acutely aware that he was watching her constantly, except for when she looked at him, when of course he avoided eye contact. When Steve finished with a fresh batch of pancakes and they all sat down to eat, Bucky crept to the table eventually and even sat down on his own, but he did so as far away from Natasha as he could manage while still keeping his wary eye on her. It wasn't ideal, but Natasha could deal with it. She hadn't wanted to be the bad cop, but if it meant that Bucky snapped out of HYDRA-mode permanently, as it did seem, then it was definitely worth his skulking around her.

 

She could only take so much of his dour stares and the petulant refusal of food he was taking up, though. Natasha figured she was the cause for now, so as soon as she finished eating she headed out.

 

"Where are you going?" Steve had noticed Bucky was acting churlish, but he'd also noticed Natasha's matched brooding.

 

"To do some stuff," she clipped back.

 

Steve and Sam watched her go, exchanging a look and continuing to flail in the morning's confusion. It only deepened when they saw Bucky's eyes follow her and then promptly relax when the outer door thudded shut. He stopped his hunger strike, then, carefully taking his first bite and then shoveling the rest down.

 

"Uh…" Sam tried out, watching, impressed, as Bucky wolfed down four pancakes in a matter of seconds. "Good flapjacks, Steve."

 

"Thanks," Steve muttered back, just as entranced by Bucky eating, "easy recipe."

 

As intent on the food as Bucky was, there was no doubt that he was really paying all his attention to Sam and Steve. Those blue eyes never left their faces for more than a second.

 

"I might like some more."

 

"Yeah, I'll make another batch."

 

Sam joined Steve at the stove, knowing full and well that Bucky was listening. "Yeah… pancakes were my favorite as a kid, best thing on the weekends. What about you, hmm?" Facing away from Bucky, he could cut his eyes back towards him without him seeing.

 

Steve took his meaning. "Oatmeal, with brown sugar if I could get it. But Dr. Banner doesn't have any of that." A shame too, getting Bucky something familiar would have been good.

 

"Really? Oatmeal?"

 

"Oh, sure. Creamy with fresh milk. A cup of cider when Mrs. Thomas was feeling generous. Great start to your day."

 

Bucky had slowed down some, was listening even more carefully.

 

"There were some days, though, when you could a sticky bun from the baker's, like on Easter or Thanksgiving, for a penny and it was the best. All warm and gooey. So good."

 

"Mmm. That does sound good. 'Nother stack?" Sam asked, holding out a new plate of pancakes to Buck.

 

He tore his eyes off of Steve and considered the plate like he was dreaming it. Sam decided to put the plate within his reach and let Buck serve himself if he wanted to. This was thin ice they were treading.

 

"My mother, bless her, was a terrible cook, but B–uh… a friend's mom could cook like a French chef. She made the best breakfasts. One time, on…on a birthday she spent all this money and got these special ingredients and made a continental breakfast dish with this creamy sauce and eggs. It was one of the best things I've ever eaten."

 

Buck had stopped eating and was staring at Steve with his eyes narrowed. Sam couldn't say whether it was suspicion or concentration, but it made Steve stop cold either way. He cleared his throat and tried engaging Buck directly; the indirect way was apparently too heavy-handed, or too subtle, it wasn't working.

 

"How're you feeling this morning?"

 

Buck shifted in his seat and reached for more pancakes.

 

"We're glad you came out. It's better out here, I think, a little less… clinical."

 

He was surprisingly polite in his table manners still, despite eating with the speed of a competitive eater. Nonetheless, he refused to respond to their conversation attempts.

 

"Do… you like it better out here?"

 

Bucky paused and met Steve's eye. He nodded slowly and cinched his lips up before blinking and looking away, focused on his food again. It was pretty clear that he wasn't ready to talk but also that listening wasn't as passive as it could be, while still not being especially constructive. Steve thought it was time to move on to a more definitive medium.

 

"Say, how would you like to see those photographs I mentioned last night? You still interested in that?"

 

Bucky nodded without breaking pace in eating, so Steve stood up and found his wallet. There were a few photos that he kept with him at all times. He could have stood to keep a few more, he thought as he shuffled back to the table. He only had five here; there were dozens back in his apartment. He'd have to make do with these. They were good ones.

 

The first was from a baseball game. It didn't show their faces, it couldn't, focused on the extended swing of the batter as it was, but Steve knew they were there, he and Bucky in the background. In fact, he could point to their two blurry circles and say who was who and what they'd been laughing about, but he wasn't going to, not just yet.

 

"There. From a game back in '32. A pretty good one." Steve handed Bucky the newspaper clipping and watched his face.

 

Bucky inspected it closely. "Their first year as the Dodgers," he said suddenly.

 

"Yeah. Yeah, it was."

 

"Was I there?" He asked like he already knew the answer.

 

Steve paused. He didn't really know how to handle this best, to tell him and reassure or let him get there on his own. Sam knew, though.

 

"Do _you_ remember being there?"

 

Buck's face was scrunched. "I think so. Maybe on the other side? The home stretch side. I know that player… he was…  good. Stripp?"

 

Steve beamed. "Yep. Joe Stripp. Good season for him."

 

He rifled through the photos, looking for the one that would be best next. Bucky kept examining the newspaper clipping. Steve swallowed a chuckle on one and knew it had to be the next.

 

This one was a real photograph, faded and glossy from an old frame. It had been taken by a service their church had hired, so it was pretty good quality, but even so you could only barely make out Steve and Bucky in it. That was because they were pulling faces for the camera. About thirteen or so, they'd been made to go Christmas caroling with their folks, but Bucky had thought having a laugh was a better time of it and Steve had played along. The picture had been taken right in the middle of 'Silent Night' and just in time to catch the two of them blowing hugely offensive raspberries. Steve's mom had yanked his ear so hard he'd thought she'd pulled it off. Bucky'd gotten the belt at home but pretended he didn't the next day. All the same it was a good memory.

 

He handed it over to Bucky next with a kind of reverence and sat down beside him. "I want to say '26, '27. Christmas caroling in the neighborhood."

 

Bucky stared long and hard at this one. His mouth moved a few times, like he was soundlessly mouthing names, but he didn't get around to saying much. After Sam had leaned over and? boomed out his laughter, Bucky quietly commented that it was disrespectful, especially in a carol like 'Silent Night.' It was Bucky's mother's words echoing out, for sure. She'd never enjoyed irony.

 

Steve already knew the next photograph he needed. He'd hated it on the night that it was taken, but it had become one of the one's he cherished most. Everything was still simple then, but right on the brink. He could taste change when he looked at it, same as he could the old days.

 

"An enlistment fair in '42. The first time I was rejected." He neglected to say it was Bucky's first and only attempt. He'd gotten his papers then and there. They both stood there grinning for the photographer, but only one was actually smiling.

 

Bucky took this one from Steve's hand, instead of it being placed in front of him. His fingers held it like it was made of glass. With a careful tap he pointed to Steve's melancholy grin. "That's Steve Rogers." 

 

Sam and Steve glanced at each other, this time neither knowing how to respond. Steve agreed after a beat. "Yeah, yeah it is."

 

"Took two tries before he smiled. Expensive. And look at it. He's grimacing." The clarity faded as quickly as it had flared up and Bucky was back to mooning at the photo. He ran a fingertip carefully over his left arm in the picture. "That's Bucky Barnes?"

 

Steve couldn't reply this time. He mashed his lips together to keep back the rush of 'you're him' choruses that filled his throat. Instead, he picked out another photo and let Sam do the agreeing.

 

"Yeah. Sure is. Man, the two looked close." He picked up the picture that Buck had set aside. He noticed Buck's hands were shaking.

 

He barely heard Steve's mumbled reply, the dismal "we were," that followed. Buck was affected, like Steve, but in a different way. He was staring at him again, and now it wasn't suspicion there but something guarded in that look. Sam had a feeling it was dawning recognition, but he wouldn't dare guess that. The look became clearer as Steve prefaced the next picture, turned into what Sam would have named the 'seven seconds from eureka face' if he could capture it somehow.

 

"Late '43. Just before setting out on a Howling Commandos mission in Bavaria. A pressman begged and begged and took a moment to get a shot, all together."

 

Buck gave the picture one, solid look and then went back to staring at Steve. He was right there, right on the edge. Steve looked away and Sam was pretty sure he saw the mask crack.

 

"What happened?"

 

If it had cracked, it was immediately repaired. Steve answered with hero-face again. "They joined the army." He lined up the two photos so Steve was above Steve and Bucky above Bucky. The difference was apparent.

 

"You and me?" It was only half a question. Sam was surprised Steve didn't rocket out of his chair in joy.

 

But, no. Steve nodded cautiously and explained. "You first. I followed… after the serum." He tapped his bigger self.

 

"They called you Captain America."

 

"Yeah, but you didn't like that." Finally, there was a smile, if only in Steve's voice. "I was always just Steve to you… Bucky."

 

Buck nodded, not flinching at his name or anything, and picked the new photograph up again. "Just Steve."

 

As Bucky collected his thoughts in silence, Steve felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He knew better than to assume this was the end of the struggle, like Sam said recovery wasn't a one-way street, but it was easier to navigate where you've already been before once. Sam seemed to feel that too, got up and collected the empty dishes with a clap on Steve's shoulder. He didn't come back, retreating into the other room after he washed the dishes.

 

Bucky was overwhelmed, but he was keeping afloat. He looked at all the photographs in turn, then Steve, then down at himself. Steve let him. He needed to process whatever he was dealing with without interruption, but he stayed there with him. No need for him to be alone. After a few minutes Bucky sighed. He looked down at his left arm and then pushed the hair out of his eyes, catching his reflection in the darkened computer screen and considering it as well. Finally, he picked up the Howling Commandos photograph once more.

 

"I'm him?" He pointed to the hard, clean-cut Sgt. Barnes that hardly smiled anymore.

 

Steve nodded.

 

"I'm Bucky?"

 

"You are, by my honor."

 

" _I_ am?" He thumped his chest with that left hand and stared at Steve. " _I_ did all those things, _I_ saw those things… what I'm remembering?"

 

"I don't know what exactly you're remembering, Buck, but likely as not they are memories. Are they like what you… recall when you look at the photos?"

 

Bucky nodded and turned the fair photo tenderly in his hand.

 

"Then, I'd say so."

 

" _I_ killed people. That Bucky didn't."

 

"Yes. You did. And in the war you killed men too, but you also saved people doing that, and… and after, you didn't know it was any different. It's not your fault. They did that to you." 

 

"I'm not a victim, Steve. They didn't _kill_ me." He said it with such surety it made Steve angry, like he really believed he shared guilt with HYDRA and Pierce or whoever else he was remembering being molded by to do whatever they had him do.

 

"They as good as killed you!"

 

Bucky stayed seated as Steve surged to his feet and brought a hand booming onto the table top.

 

He was calm when he responded. "I'm dangerous. I should… be gotten rid of."

 

"You're dangerous. Yes. So am I. So is fire and dogs and… a bunch of stuff, but you don't get rid of those because they're _potentially_ dangerous."

 

"I'm _actually_ dangerous," Bucky replied in the tired, sullen voice of seventy-two years before. "I killed so many people. And, I liked it. I felt accomplished."

 

"They told you that, made you believe that you liked it. Made you believe you were doing the right thing."

 

"Yeah. So? They believed it was the right thing. You got rid of them. Why not me?"

 

"Because that isn't who you are, Bucky."

 

"Yes it is!" He shouted, eyes mashed shut and flipped the table. The rage lasted for only a heartbeat and, as the table clattered to the floor, he opened eyes filled with questions and doubt. "Or… was I no one for all that time? I… I don't know."

 

Steve was a jumble of reactions, but the first thing he did was give the okay to Sam, standing in the doorway, looking worried. Once he was gone again, Steve carefully chose his response.

 

"They treated like you were no one."

 

That earned a little nod. Maybe Bucky accepted that as true, but the rest of his thoughts were a mystery. His face had flickered back to the wide, blank, haunted one. Steve almost wished the jaded, stubborn, self-loathing one would come back. He bent over and helped as Bucky stooped to pick up the table, which was different. Helpless, petrified Bucky didn't move, much less pick up his messes. Maybe he hadn't backtracked that far.

 

"Steve?"

 

"Yeah, Buck?"

 

"What happened to me? Really?" He looked like the empty Bucky but he sounded like Sgt. Barnes, asking follow-up questions after a mission.

 

It was an improvement, even if a very confusing one. Steve couldn't imagine how disorienting that was for Bucky. He also couldn't quite decide how to answer his question. He went with Sam's tactic.

 

"Why don't you tell me the bits and pieces you remember and I'll help flesh those out with what I know. A lot of it is still unknown to us, your… condition was kept under tight wraps."

 

"I remember… falling." Bucky's gaze was far off. "And… the chair… and the icebox, and pain and gunfire and blood."

 

Steve found he was grinding his teeth. As Bucky paused and took a deep breath, Steve did the same.

 

"I remember… the last mission. You. On the bridge. That is clear. The chair is clear and hot. Commander Pierce. The woman with the red hair, she makes me think in Russian."

 

"Natasha," Steve filled in for him. "She's not with the Russians anymore, but she was once. And you've met her before, when she was a US operative. She said you shot through her to kill a target."

 

Bucky's jaw flexed and he stared at the table, trying, trying so hard to remember. "Over a cliff?"

 

"I think that's what she said. But you didn't kill her."

 

"No. I wouldn't have. She wasn't the target. I think I remember. It's fragmented. Then, the chair." Bucky spoke in short, clipped sentences, pausing between each to piece the next one together. It was so unlike his old way, smooth and jaunty, now so mechanical.

 

Steve realized he was speaking like he was relaying information, in a debriefing or the like. The was asset-Bucky's speech mannerism. "You really remember the chair. Is that the electroshock device they used? The one that… cleared your memories."

 

Bucky's face soured. "I don't know how it did what it did. I know they used it to clean me for the next mission. For efficiency. I know how it felt."

 

"They used it to erase your memories, Bucky–"

 

"I'm Bucky?"

 

Steve nodded and continued. "–to take your name away and your dreams and morals, to take everything that makes you you away. They made you a weapon. No thoughts means no questions means absolute obedience. Don't you see? They brainwashed you and stole your life, and mind, and volition. It wasn't just to prep you for the next mission. It was so that you'd be their attack dog and do what they couldn't, or wouldn't."

 

He listened to Steve with a dour intensity. A few times a muscle would twitch by mouth or eye, but besides that he was entirely still.

 

"That's what happened?"

 

"Yes. Doesn't it feel like something's missing in here?" Steve pointed to his temple. "Don't you figure you have so many questions for a reason?"

 

"If I were briefed–"

 

"Then you'd just have more of their garbage in your head instead of your own thoughts and memories and beliefs. You can think for yourself. It's what you should be doing. I promise."

 

"For myself? For what?"

 

"For… life, for living. There's more than the next mission. See? That's another thing they stole. Life isn't a series of hits and then long periods spent asleep in cryostasis. It's continuous until it's over, but it's yours and you live it by making choices and doing what you decide to do, it's thinking and seeing and feeling and loving and hating. It's a ton of things, but it's not being put in a storage to be kept fresh until someone else needs you. That's what you do with weapons… and pickles."

 

"Pickles?"

 

Steve exhaled loudly and rubbed a hand over his face. "Never mind. It's a food… uh, what about before the… chair. What do remember of that? Like with the baseball game, and the fair?"

 

"Before the chair? It's like a film. I see the pictures. I know the characters and places, but they're not mine. I don't feel them. Not usually."

 

"Okay…" That wasn't where Steve was hoping to go with this, but he could make do. "Well, do you see what Bucky did with his life?"

 

"The game. Eating. Little things, yes."

 

"Exactly. That's it. That's living. Little things every day that amount to a big thing. Sometimes there are bigger things, like… important days or events, but living is in the little stuff. You liked the pancakes, right?"

 

He looked down at the empty plate and fell contemplative. "Yes…" he said like it surprised him.

 

"There you go. Eating's a little thing, but it's great. Sometimes, it makes a whole day worth it. And there's other stuff, too."

 

"Why?"

 

"Why? Why? Because that's what there is, because it… is what humans do, sometimes it's even enjoyable."

 

"What's the point?"

 

"There is no point," Steve said with a heavy heart. Explaining existential arguments were not one of his little things. "That's just what life is. You make the best of what's given to you."

 

"If there is no point then I should just wait until–"

 

"No. No, no. Life isn't a mission. It's an end in itself. You can live to make a difference with your choices and actins. Along those lines, yzou can choose goals along the way, to give yourself the feeling of accomplishment and something to spend time on, or to pay the bills, but that's only part of it. Not the whole thing."

 

That caused a long, heavy silence between them. Bucky worked that over with deeply furrowed brow and tight lips. With eyes still boring a hole into his hands he asked, "I can choose what I do?"

 

"Yes. Sometimes there will be orders, but not like you're used to, ultimately it's your decision to follow them or not. That's what it means to have volition."

 

"Being Bucky means choosing?"

 

"Yes."

 

"And being the asset means not?"

 

"Yes."

 

"I understand. I… remember choosing. It... You make choices?"

 

"I do. A lot of them. Some are easy and some aren't. Sometimes they're the hardest part of life, but I wouldn't give them up because of that."

 

Bucky nodded. "You chose to bring me here?"

 

"Yes. Absolutely, I chose to bring you here to try to help you, because it was the right thing to do."

 

"Thank you."

 

Steve smiled, it was a sad one, but it was also a relief. "You're welcome, Bucky."

 

"I'm Bucky."

 

"You are. Unless you want to go by something else, but you're the man I used to call Bucky, just with some new life experiences. Do you want me to call you something else?"

 

He pondered that for just a beat and then shook his head. "No. I like Bucky. It feels good." He splayed his hands out over the table and then began tapping each finger in turn. "If they erased my memories to take away all that, then why can I remember things now? I couldn't before."

 

"The serum," Steve offered. "What Zola did to you in his experiments in Germany, it made you different, made you so that they could use you as a weapon, but more than that. It changed your body down to the cells. That's what Erskine said. Your body heals differently, your mind too. They probably couldn't have taken it all away from you no matter what they tried. Not forever. They could hold off it coming back though, with more shocks and the cryostasis. But you remember that, right? I bet they didn't plan on that."

 

Bucky nodded again, this time slower, heavier. "I remember. It felt like hell. Like the sun was going to burst out of my eyes and my joints were going to rattle apart. I… I don't want to feel that again. Please, don't ma–make… don't… no. No." He shook his head and caught his face in his hands. "I was confused. Steve. You're Steve. You're here. You're real. I'm Bucky. I'm Bucky."

 

"Yeah, I'm Steve and you're Bucky. Everything's fine. You're safe." Steve held his eye until the shaking stopped.

 

"It's… confusing. Where am I?"

 

"A bunker a friend of mine owns. I'm not honestly sure what state, but it's the U.S."

 

"And… the year?"

 

"2014."

 

Bucky sucked in his lips. "20…14. I'm… old."

 

Steve laughed. He couldn't help it. It just burst out of him. "Yeah. Me too. Old and out of place."

 

"But you aren't. You're young."

 

"Like you are. I was frozen for a while, too."

 

"In the icebox?" He asked with anger.

 

"No. In real ice, up at the top of the world, practically. I put down a plane in the ocean that was going to blow the eastern seaboard off the map."

 

"Why?"

 

"To save people. It was the right thing to do."

 

"You chose that?" He looked away, down and aside, after he asked. "Because it's the right thing to do… yes. I see. That's familiar."

 

Steve chuckled, "yeah, I suppose I've been a little reckless with my personal safety in the past, if it meant–"

 

"The greater good was served. I understand. I… remember."

 

"Good. What else do you remember?"

 

"Most of it's cold and empty. A big hole, unless I'm looking for something... They told me what was right and wrong. What to do. When I disagreed, the chair or the icebox. The world went blank again. Sometimes I fought back. I remember a Russian officer… he gave me orders. One order made me sick. I didn't know why, only that it made me angry. I twisted his head clean off."

 

He blinked and looked at Steve with horror. "I killed that man…" then he changed, his face fell, left him dull and surly again. "And he _deserved_ it."

 

Steve drew a deep, steadying breath. This was going to be a long uphill battle. Better to take it in short spurts. "Maybe that's enough for now, Buck. We can talk more about it all later. Let's let your mind rest for a while. Sound good?"

 

"Tell me something." He waited for him to nod. "Is this real?"

 

Steve felt his jaw drop a quarter inch. He closed it and nodded. "Yes. Very real."

 

"I'm not dreaming? I'm not dreaming all this in the icebox?"

 

"You dreamt in cryo?"

 

"Maybe… no. I don't know."

 

Steve stood and grabbed him by the shoulder. "It's real. HYDRA's destroyed. You're free, here with me. You have your life back."

 

"And it's true? They told me their truths. They said they were real. Are yours more real, more true?"

 

"What do you think?"

 

"I want to believe you. Like I never could with them. That doesn't make it real or true. Tell me. Please. Is it?"

 

"Have I ever lied to you?" Steve's voice rattled as he asked. Seeing Bucky fight like this with himself made him feel utterly helpless.

 

"No?" It was half a question.

 

"No. I'm always honest. And what I've told you is real. But if you don't want to take my word on it, we've got other sources that are less subjective."

 

* * *

 

Sam had spent the last hour trying to take a nap, but what he actually did was listen to Bucky and Steve talk with his eyes clamped shut. It was the least enjoyable eavesdropping he'd ever done. Buck was in a bad way, his brain was all scrambled up. It sounded like he had lost everything and had grown accustomed to nothing, so when everything started bleeding back through it forced him to completely reconfigure his reality. It sounded fucking confusing and exhausting and frustrating.

 

When Steve had called their talk therapy over for the day, Sam had decided to come back out and help. If it was evidence they wanted now, he could help. History had been one of his favorite subjects in school, and Captain America a hero. He knew all about the Howling Commandos and their service and better, he knew how to find those less subjective sources.

 

Banner had a ton of tech down in his mole hole, among it a standard printer. Within the half-hour, Buck had stacks of print-outs in front of him and a full-on frown on his face. Sam had also, even with Steve disapproving in the background, pulled up a bunch of world history documentaries ripped off from somewhere. They were playing on the laptop while Bucky thumbed through the mish-mash history book Sam had created. He didn't say much, not even asking questions, or really react at all, but they could still see he was growing more and more upset with each page.

 

It amazed Sam, how even with all his life stripped from him, Buck still seemed to have certain habits or ways of doing things no matter what. He was pretty methodical. With every report he'd lay it aside and then if he found one that corroborated it or doubled the information – which he always did, because Sam knew that good research meant more than one source on everything – he would lay it with the other and then stare at the two, or three or six. Or maybe that was what HYDRA had done to him, Sam couldn't know. But why would a secret spy/destructo-organization want a discerning killer? He chose to believe it was Buck 1.0 with this good sense.

 

While Buck found that his world-view was hugely insufficient and largely misinformed, Steve and Sam tried to do other stuff. They read about Natasha's Capitol Hill interview, talked about that and its consequences. For a bit, they played cards and then later even hand-washed some clothes and towels and stuff, but, in reality, they were watching Bucky. They needed to, in case he flipped his shit.

 

At lunch, he obediently laid aside all the papers and helped stack them in his own order to clear the table. He ate the sandwich Sam made for him and grunted his thanks, but he didn't look at them or speak otherwise. He had withdrawn again. They couldn't blame him. It was like Sam had thought, his entire reality was being stomped into the mud and he was having to build one from scratch that was the complete opposite.

 

As they were clearing the table again, helping Bucky lay out his research piles, Natasha came sauntering back inside. She was loaded down with a huge pack, a musty, wrinkled file in one hand and an apple in the other. She dumped the pack onto the dinner table with a resounding thump and not even a glance at Bucky then sent the file skidding across the table and to a stop in front of him.

 

"Some load you brought in there," Steve commented as he stooped over to read the file. "Did you… get stuff done?"

 

"Sure did. That old contact proved useful. That's a full account, or as full as anyone is getting about this sort of thing."

 

"Is it… all in Russian?" Steve asked and peeked behind the page Buck was now reading intently.

 

"I read Russian," Buck mumbled and shooed Steve away.

 

"Yeah, he reads Russian and so do I, so you'll get the content through one of us. This, however, is in English." Natasha leaned forward and unzipped the pack. Dozens of books spilled out.

 

"Did you get a library card and decide you wanted to take advantage of it?"

 

"Not exactly." Nat had never looked so feline as she did with that half-grin. "But Bucky can take advantage of all this to catch him up… in addition to the internet contribution you've had him pouring over by the looks of it."

 

She flipped out a pocket knife and cut into the apple she'd brought, crunching it with savor as she eyed Bucky. He hadn't looked at her once and was now pointedly ignoring her. They were all rather impressed that that was how he reacted as opposed to lunging over the table to strangle her. Recovery in motion there. Natasha, however, still seemed displeased with his demeanor towards her. Kicking her feet up onto the table she continued staring at him, now adding a sigh. Sam and Steve tensed when Buck glared at her feet; one was just starting to topple one of his stacks, his neatly ordered stacks.

 

She noticed and put her feet down but didn't leave off the staring. It was getting aggressive now and Buck's hackles were raising. After what felt like an hour of him not making eye contact and her trying to force it, Natasha finally gave up. She sat forward to straighten his papers and then sat back with a sigh, just in time to catch him following her movements like a hawk.

 

"I'm not going to hurt you, you know. You can put away that steak knife." She carved another slice of apple free as she spoke and then pointed to the knife in Buck's hand, still covered in mustard. Sam hadn't even noticed that he'd nabbed it from the sandwich plate.

 

After that another stretch of tense silence followed, this time with Bucky glowering warily and Natasha ignoring him in favor of her apple butchery. She wasn't actually ignoring him. It was a very pointed dissembling of averted attention. For Steve and Sam it was like watching two big cats being thrown in the same enclosure, one aloof, the other guarded, and neither backing down but not attacking either. She was letting him assess as she had, now that her dominance was clear.

 

"Tiger. Leopard." Sam muttered in Steve's ear, just barely pointing to Buck then Nat.

 

Steve swallowed a grin and shushed him. "They're circling, don't make 'em pounce."

 

Natasha rolled her eyes as Sam snorted. "These two _morons_ are right, Bucky. We can't keep prowling wide around one another, there's not enough _territory_. So let's clear some things up. Yes, I was an assassin. Yes, I am a spy. No, I am not with the Russians anymore. No, I'm not nor ever have been involved with HYDRA. No, I am not going to hurt you. That's the bottom line, Barnes. All the old, bad blood between our pasts is just water under a bridge to me."

 

She waited a beat as he actually met her eye. Sam was holding his breath and could feel Steve physically fretting beside him.

 

"Clear enough for you?"

 

Bucky didn't respond, not immediately, but Natasha did acknowledge her audience's concerns. Turning to glance back at them, she shrugged.

 

"I don't have the energy or patience for this kind of standoff at the moment," she explained. "It's been a long couple of days. Plus, he's been responding best to not being coddled, to directness. Am I right?"

 

They nodded, but it was Bucky who answered.

 

"I still don't trust you."

 

"Good," Natasha grinned her leopard's grin and went back happily to eating her apple. "As long as we're clear."

 

The next few hours were challenging. Natasha could have dropped a grenade on the table and its effects wouldn't have been as messy as those of that load of paper and ink and facts. She'd been thorough in her selection, collecting as much about the past century as she could from as many and as varied  sources as she could get her hands on. There were books in three different languages, from over twenty publishing companies in eight different countries and not a single one was approved as source material for standardized tests in the U.S.. Natasha was of the opinion that if a country approved of a historical narrative about itself, it wasn't a thorough enough narrative.

 

The real WMD was that KGB file, as she'd expected it would be, but not in the manner she'd predicted. Bucky had read that with a steely calmness and then left it open to glance at it occasionally. And there it sat, a ticking bomb until he started piecing it together with the other stacks of events and their _dates_. At first, it was just a widened gaze, a trembling of his jaw, a flare of his nostrils. But as he moved onward in his hodgepodge timeline of corroborated events the countdown doubled its speed.

 

From her perch on the back of the couch, Natasha could see that had just reached the account of a particularly brutal massacre from the sixties, crowned with the death of an influential, peaceful political figure. Signaling Steve, she ended his conversation with Sam about dinner and the three of them waited. Bucky put it together immediately, as soon as he reached the photograph from his collection of texts. He may have actually remembered. 

 

BOOM.

 

That bomb went off. Bucky's rage was a terrible thing, but more than anything it was sad to see. He hurled the offending book across the room with a thunderous 'no' and moved on to the table. Natasha was just quick enough to snatch the laptop away to safety before the table caught up with the book. No one moved to stop him, and so he just glared at the snowstorm of pages, his intricate system scattered by his own hand. That just seemed to upset him even more, but it was pain that made him shout this time.

 

"I should have died in those mountains!" He bellowed, hands clenched tight but still, eyes shut as well. He was fighting to not fight. There was so much pain there, in the quaver of his voice, the baring of his teeth. Natasha knew the feeling all too well.

 

"It seems bad, I know, Bucky, but–" Steve's attempt was gallant but futile.

 

"Bad?! Bad?!" He swept the KGB file from the pile of fluttering clutter, flicked it to Natasha. She flipped to what she knew was the log entry and quietly gave a quick translation. "That's _..._ that's... _monstrous._ And even what I didn't do…" He was digging his fingers into his scalp, pulling at his hair in outrage. "We didn't even _win_ the War. Not if this is what it brought. Not if that was its cost."

 

He was pointing at imagined pages by then, or maybe remembered scenes. His mind was afield again.

 

"No. I won't. I won't. I won't."

 

The shaking didn't take long to follow. Steve, Sam, and Natasha all had to wrestled him down to the ground and pry the knife from his hand when he defaulted to asset-mode a split second later. It took quite a lot of talking to bring him down from that. When they finally did, he sat and mooned gloomily at his destroyed filing system. When Steve couldn't take it anymore and started picking it up with a heavy sigh, Bucky watched him with a pout, then confusion, and finally joined him, sullen again.

 

He never did get it back in order. His temperament was against him on that front. He would manage for a good half hour, forty-five minutes and then his fuse would reach its end, or some other event would click with another piece of data, and he'd jump away from the table, or sweep it all clear again, or just shout, and then storm into his cell. At those moments, the only word he knew was 'no' and his eyes were as cold and hard as ice. He looked his moniker then, seething with rage and self-loathing. He'd come out on his own, only after Steve had given up on coaxing him out, and then sit right back down to plod back on. Panic and confusion surfaced now and again, but his pattern was beginning to settle into silent sullenness punctuated by short bursts of rage.

 

Natasha admired his persistence but also pitied him for it. She knew it was really just desperation made fierce. And at dinner it revealed itself as such when it crumbled. Steve had asked quietly if it was okay if they stacked some things up and set them aside for dinner. At first, Bucky hadn't responded. He sat stock still as if he hadn't heard.

 

"We'll put it right back, Buck, promise," Sam said, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of the stew pot. He'd made gumbo. Natasha had brought back more than books.

 

"If you don't want us to, though, that's alright too. Just… say something, Bucky." This was destroying Steve.

 

That was when he looked up, mouth cinched up and brow knitted. He was on the edge, this time of tears not violent anger, but he was doing his very best not to fall over it or show his struggle.

 

"Please," he mumbled, "please, just take it all away."

 

They cleared the papers then, and Bucky didn't ask for them again. It was clear, though, that he didn't forget about them or what they'd revealed. As volatile as he had and could be, the brooding taciturnity became his fallback mood and he didn't ask any more questions for the rest of the evening. He also shied from contact. It was probably because he still didn't really trust any of them. But there were moments when he reminded Natasha of Bruce Banner, trying to recede into the woodwork, as if that could make his _presence_ disappear. Of course, it didn't. It was ever-lurking and in some ways even more apparent than the scientist's. Bucky wore his, literally, and could hardly hide it. The surprising bit was that he wasn't particularly biased against it, trying to use his right instead of left arm or covering it. He only moved with more measured precision when he used it, which was impressive in itself because precision was always evident in his motions.

 

Watching him scoop the gumbo had almost made her laugh. Then she realized that 'robotic' was the word it brought to mind and suddenly all the humor was sucked from the room. The arm was the obvious manifestation, but in reality all of Bucky Barnes had been made mechanical when they had stolen his memories. Every mannerism went with them and had to be redeveloped. And when you're only treated like a tool, you tend to act like one. Worst of all, he seemed vaguely aware of the inorganic way he moved but could hardly correct it, except to mirror Steve and Sam, and in some cases her. For the gumbo, he ended up eventually mimicking Sam and by the end of his bowl had mastered a somewhat less _robotic_ way of eating. No one seemed to notice his coping mechanism except Natasha, and she meant to keep it that way. No point in embarrassing him or deterring him from adjusting if she didn't need to.

 

She couldn't tell just how far he'd come that day, but she was certain that Bucky at least knew what he wasn't. That was nobody. He'd rediscovered his existence, his _whole_ existence: James Buchanan Barnes and Winter Soldier alike. It was left to him to toy with what parts to accept, to appropriate, to set aside. The personality would have to follow. He wasn't going to just slip back into one or the other. He was too aware of their dual existences to allow for mutual exclusivity. Natasha guessed that he would find some combination of the two, just as soon as he worked out which was which and what each entailed. That was going to be arduous. Self-awareness was such a burden when it really came down to it.

 

But first, he had to accept that he was safe and sheltered.

 

"No."

 

"Please, Buck. Just take off the clothes–"

 

"No." He was like a child. Once he knew he had volition, exercising it against other people was all he was interested in doing.

 

"Bucky, please. You don't even have to do it out here. You can go into the bedroom, if you're embarrassed, take these off and put a fresh set on." Steve pointed back to Natasha, who revealed the aforementioned set of fresh clothing. They were another item from her, ahem, shopping trip.

 

Bucky narrowed his eyes at them. "Fresh se–why?"

 

"Because you've been wearing these for a whole day and they're… done for the day."

 

Really, they were done forever. Bucky had managed to stain, rip, or even put a hole through each piece of clothing on his body. Natasha still wasn't sure how he'd put that hole through the shirt, maybe in his thrashing sleep.

 

He glanced down at what he was wearing, trepidation setting his brow. "I get a new set?"

 

"Yes," Steve said, heart audibly breaking in that single syllable.

 

That was all Bucky needed to hear. In a matter of seconds he was completely nude, holding his hand out for the new clothing. Sam barely covered a laugh with a cough in the background. Natasha was unaffected. She was more encouraged by the fact that he took them off and put on the new ones on his own this time. A little nudity now and then did no harm.

 

"We'll work on personal boundaries another day," Steve mumbled as he walked back to help with the dishes.

 

Natasha followed him, glancing back at Bucky every step or so. "So, what's the plan, Steve? He's better but he's not ready for civvy life. I think with his volatility we need at least a few more days of the security steel-enforced walls and a narrow climb to a locked hatch provide. But, what do you think?"

 

"A few more days," Steve agreed.

 

"Uh… yeah. He's got some things to learn before we can take him out in public. People tend not to respond so well to unannounced displays of nudity."

 

"Yes, thank you, Sam. But he is doing better. So much better. I just don't know what we'll do with him until he's stable. Talking with him is like pulling teeth, for him and me, and there's not much more down here to do."

 

Natasha patted Steve's arm. "We'll figure out something. I say, once he goes a whole day without a violent outburst, we move elsewhere. For now, he's still in the survivalist stage, worried about having clothing and food. When he trusts us and this world enough to not panic over that, he'll be ready. At least, that's what I think. Thoughts?"  
  
Sam nodded and Steve just shrugged.

 

"What's bothering you, Steve?"

 

"I don't know. What about his… mental health? He's still so confused and conflicted. What about violence because of that?"

 

Natasha blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. Steve was right but he was also jumbling priorities. "Can't be mentally sound without feeling physically sound. Maybe one will follow the other."

 

"I think she's right, Steve. Nothin' we can do about his emotional and psych state when he feels physically compromised. Let him know he's got food, water, a safe place to sleep, and shelter, and I bet the mental stuff will start healing as well. I mean, for now I don't even think he knows what to do with his body, like that it has integrity again and he has to take care of it. How do you expect him to figure out who he is as a person if he can't figure out… his person. You know?"

 

"We'll start some kind of adjustment therapy tomorrow. How's that sound?" Natasha offered with a specific set of tasks in mind. "When he has things to do it'll be an easier road. I bet he'll even get there on his own and ask for help when it's time."

 

Steve was staring over their heads at his friend. His eyes followed him for a couple seconds, as Bucky felt at his new clothing, looked around the room with caution in his eyes, then looked back at them. "That's fine. He's… I think we pushed it too far today. Should'a stuck with just his life history instead of his part in world history. I think I overwhelmed him."

 

"I did it, too," Natasha said. "We underestimated how personally he would process the information. In a way, that's a good sign, though, that he has self-awareness and some idea of his own autonomy."

 

"I just… I wanted him to know. To know everything. I didn't want to keep anything from him like HYDRA did."

 

"And he'll find out in time. You didn't do anything wrong, how could you know? But, now that we do know, let's start small with him as him and then work outward. Tomorrow, we'll help to show him that he's safe here with us and then we'll start Bucky Barnes 101, alright? But with him making the final decisions. You can remind him of who he used to be, but he needs to choose who he will be in order to feel comfortable and secure in his own skin."

 

Sam handed Steve the final dish and turned off the water. The three of them stood contemplating the task ahead of them, drying dishes and stacking them into cabinets.

 

"What if there's nothing left of him in there?"

 

Sam and Natasha were surprised by the melancholy in Steve's question. It was so unlike him. Sam chose to answer.

 

"Then, he'll build something new. If you're around, chances are it'll at least be a bit like the old him. He's already relying on you for the final word on things, I bet he'll end up being who he thinks you want him to be." He patted Steve on the back and then headed towards Bucky who was falling asleep where he sat. "Come on, let's get him some place to sleep."

 

Oddly enough, Sam's assurance wasn't all that assuring to Steve. He didn't want Bucky to be who he thought Steve wanted him to be. He wanted him to be who he wanted to be. It would be nice if that meant he was his old self, admittedly, but that thought was selfish and futile. Steve pushed it all aside as he trudged over to where Bucky had hunkered down between the couch and the wall.

 

"Come on, Bucky, you can sleep in the bedroom," Steve said and then promptly hopped backwards to avoid the slash.  
 

Again, they couldn't figure out where Bucky had gotten a hold of a knife. He glared around wildly at them, that feral darkness to his eyes. It only took a moment for him to calm down, however, and he gave up the knife willingly when asked. _An improvement_ , Steve found himself thinking wearily.

 

"I'm Bucky," he asserted but with the slightest upswing of a question. He nodded when Steve nodded. "I'm Bucky."

 

"Sure are, and you can sleep in the bedroom, in a real bed. You don't have to sleep out here, huddled in a corner. Or with a knife, for that matter. You're safe here. No one is going to attack you."

 

Bucky was looking over Steve's shoulder as he spoke. Turning, he found it was Natasha he was eyeing.

 

"Natasha's not going to hurt you. I swear."

 

He finally looked down to Steve. "No. Thank you. I'll sleep here."

 

_At least he said 'thank you'_ , Steve found himself in internal dialogue again. It was, admittedly, yet another improvement, even if Buck was still not confident in his bodily safety. He surprised them all when he added an explanation.  
 

"Others deserve more privacy." He hadn't looked at Natasha again, but Steve had a sneaking suspicion that he had to have meant her. It was yet another slip of his old self. Maybe hope was to be held out after all.

 

Steve glanced back for help but Sam only shrugged. Natasha had slipped away. Steve decided to cede the point. If Bucky wanted to sleep out here, then, by God, he could sleep out here. He stood and pulled a few of the top cushions of the couch.  
 

"At least sleep on something besides the hard concrete, huh?"

 

Bucky studied the cushions, then Steve's hand holding them, and finally his face. There was a glint there, in that gaze, that Steve thought might be the shadow of memory, perhaps even humored memory. His eyes were softer in the least as he accepted the cushions, and there was definitely methodical swiftness in his creation of a small pallet. If Steve had allowed his hope to flutter to full wing, he would have thought that Bucky made that pallet in imitation of the ones from old bunk-overs. He thanked Steve again when he gave him a pillow and a blanket.

 

_Improvements. All improvements._

 


	5. SLEEP and SHELTER pt. 2

That night Steve fell asleep content. For once he was weighed not with worries, but just plain old exhaustion. Too bad that peace only lasted a few hours.

 

"Yep," Natasha sighed and tapped her watch. "I'd bet he's in REM sleep. The nightmares would be the worst then."

 

Steve pinched his eyes tightly shut and tried to ignore Bucky's screaming. It was full on screaming too. Steve had nearly launched himself through the ten inches of solid steel in the bunker's ceiling when it started. Sam had shouted some vaguely familiar orders and Natasha had come sprinting out of the back room, gun cocked and hair mussed. They'd calmed down since then, but Bucky's nightmares hadn't. It was a wonder he still had a voice.

 

"It's prob'ly 'cuz he doesn't use it much during the day," Sam commented when Steve had mentioned that wonder. "I think we should try remedying that t'morrow."

 

"It's incredible really that he's managed to condense himself into so small a ball and still make that much noise," Natasha mused. "You'd think it would be one or the other, with that smashing his diaphragm."

 

"I'm gonna smash his diaphragm."

 

"He'd smash your whole chest, Wilson. Here…" Natasha disappeared into the bedroom and then appeared again with a small plastic box in her hand. "Put these in and try to get some rest."

 

"Ear plugs? You think these are going to block out that?"

 

"No. That's why I said 'try.' You can take the bed for now. I'll stay out here with Steve."

 

"Fuck this shit. I'm locking myself in the containment room. You know where to find me when breakfast rolls 'round." Sam stomped off, muttering grumpily, but still smashing the little foam cylinders into his ears.

 

"You alright, Steve?"

 

"What? Yes. I just can't help but wonder what's making him scream like that. Probably the ES chair, right?"

 

"Probably. But… well, it may be other things too. REM cycle is when neurologists think memory might be consolidated, so he might be working through some things that he didn't initially recall. It's also when we have our most vivid dreams, so, yes, he might be reliving the chair. Just try not to think about it, Steve. There's nothing we can do. He needs the sleep."

 

"I guess, he doesn't need the–" Steve lost track of what he was saying as the screaming stopped and faded to whimpers. Those were almost worse. "The…the… uh, he doesn’t need to suffer _more_. That's all I mean."

 

"I know, Steve, I know." Natasha's hand was gentler than usual as she laid it on his arm. " _I know_. Take some earplugs and be ready for temporary regression when he wakes." She pressed the heel of his shield into his hands and then slipped away.

 

Steve slept the rest of that night with his head and shoulders under a blanket of vibranium but his ears clear, just in case the regression meant stealth-assassin. It was the crashing that woke Steve next. A quick look at the microwave's clock told him it was already seven in the morning. The twanging clatter of metal on concrete was coming from the lab. As Bucky's pallet was an empty nest of scattered cushions and blankets, Steve assumed that temporary regression had set in and his friend was in the middle of a confused escape attempt. He was only half right.

 

"Bucky?" He almost shouted when he found him standing shirtless in the lab, a scalpel in his hand.

 

"Steve? Steve! What's going on? What is this!?!" He held his left arm out in front of him, face contorted in horror and confusion. "What's happening?"

 

"Bucky, put the scalpel down. You're okay. That's your arm now."

 

"This isn't my arm! This is made of metal! What happened?!"

 

"You know what happened, Buck, you just have to think and remember." Sam was standing in the doorway of the containment cell. "It'll come back."

 

"Who are you? Where are we, Steve? What–what's… what's… happening?" It was impossible to miss, the dawning of his recollection. It completely transformed his comportment. With head hung, he set the scalpel down and picked up his shirt, slipping it back on and trudging into the living space without a word.

 

"Are you alright?" Steve asked him, kneeling beside his pallet.

 

"I'm Bucky," he responded with a tinge of bitterness mixed into his sullenness. "But I'm not that Bucky."

 

He refused to answer Steve after that, a blanket pulled up over his head. After a few minutes, Steve heard a gentle snoring from beneath and decided he'd let him sleep some more. Natasha was watching him from across the room when he stood.

 

"You didn't say how far he would regress."

 

"I didn't know," she said, eyes on the lump of blanket hiding Bucky. "But I'd say he remembers more now."

 

"Yeah. I'd say so too."

 

"Little by little, Steve. At least there was no violence this time."

 

"True, very true. He just tried to cut off his prosthetic with a scalpel."

 

Natasha audibly winced. "Besides that."

 

"Besides that, yeah, no violence. Just sullen, silent resignation. Is it true that lethargy is a symptom of depression?"

 

"Yes, but Bucky's not just depressed, he's traumatized. For now, there's a difference. If he doesn't get any better as he adjusts to this life, then we'll look at helping with that. One step at a time, Steve, one step at a time."

 

She stepped up beside him and pressed something against his chest. Looking down, Steve found it to be a sketch pad. A box of pencils were in her other hand.

 

"For _your_ therapy," she murmured and then flitted through to the lab.

 

Steve began wondering how she knew that this would help, that he needed an outlet, but then he stopped. Of course she knew, she was Natasha. She slipped back inside a few moments later with Sam in tow. He'd apparently thought Bucky's idea was a good one and had tried to go back to sleep. Natasha was not allowing that. She pushed him into the chair across from Steve and then sat down herself.

 

"We've got a lot of work ahead of us today and I want us all to be on the same page," she whispered and then retrieved a small notepad from nowhere. "Okay, Bucky's therapy today is going to focus around volition. That means that he's going to make all the choices, and I mean _all_ of them, so many as is reasonable. I thought he should just go through a normal day, doing mundane activities for as long as he can through his own decisions. We'll obviously have to guide him in some ways, but this will give him practice being autonomous again, help him trust us, and make him feel more secure about all sorts of things."

 

She looked between the two of them and then focused on Sam.

 

"Okay, what do you do in your downtime?"

 

"Downtime? What's downtime? No. I'm kidding, uh… I like reading, video games, movies, tv, the works. I also like to cook. In case you haven't noticed, you've got a gourmet chef in the house."

 

"Yes, you're quite proficient," Natasha agreed off-hand, tapping her pencil point on the notepad and frowning. "But… that won't do Barnes any good… yet. Except, I suppose, you can help him make his own meals. Yes, that'll work."

 

"Oh, and I can knit."

 

"What?" Both Steve and Natasha looked at him in surprise.

 

"I. Can. Knit. What? A man can't knit? My Mams liked to knit and like spending time with her, so I learned to knit. It's good for keeping your nervous energy occupied."

 

"Yeah, it certainly is… well, we can try using that with Barnes when we know he won't lobotomize you with a needle."

 

"Eeeew… yeah. Let's wait 'til then. I also don't want a surprise tracheotomy." Sam drummed his fingers. "Oh, and I can teach him to play guitar."

 

"Is there anything you can't do?"

 

He smiled at Steve with a sly grin. "Not that I've tried. Now who's the superhero? Eh? Eh?"

 

"Okay, enough. That's good, Wilson, the guitar is only minimally dangerous as a weapon and it'll give him something to focus entirely on. We'll add that to the list for later hobbies. For now… the cooking will do. Steve, you draw. We could let him try with pencil and paper, if only to express his emotions by breaking the pencil."

 

"He used to like crossword puzzles," Steve answered, eye on the sketch book and the proportions he was sketching in of his last memory of Bucky whole and safe. It was one of those images that was burned into his memory.

 

"Then crossword puzzles will work. I'll find some that won't drive him crazy. Right… so, we have meals, downtime, duh, duh, duh, duh-duh. I'm going to have him choose some clothes for me to acquire. We'll see then just how much he remembers of penmanship. Then some basic hygiene things and chores. That'll do it, I'd say, for the day. When he gets up…" she was writing quickly on the pad now, "the first thing he needs to do is shower. Obviously, on his own, and then I've got about three pairs of shirts, pants, underwear that he gets to choose an outfit from and get dressed in all on his own, alright?"

 

She got up and came back out from the bedroom with several stacks of clothes. She set those down on the table and kept writing.

 

"Then, Sam, you'll be on, helping him choose and make his breakfast. Steve, you or I will help him wash his dishes, then I'll show him how to wash his clothes. There'll be a bit of downtime for one of the hobbies then and hopefully, Bucky'll choose to join in with something we're doing. Then, Sam again with lunch and after that, I think we should have him decide about his appearance. He might want to shave or cut his hair some. I've got the tools for that, but I think that'll be on you, Steve. He trusts you most."

 

Steve nodded solemnly, realizing that he might be left to cut Buck's hair. That could be a horror show.

 

"And then, after, or if he chooses not to change anything, I'm going to have him pick out some clothing, like I said, and then the rest of the evening, besides dinner, will be downtime, so hopefully he finds that he likes television or reading or something, otherwise this could get fairly tense. Remind me, when we move from here, to be sure to get a gaming system, that will be excellent. For everyone. Alright guys, meeting adjourned."

 

Natasha ripped off the list, which read: 'Barnes' Day One' and had the list of activities for the day, and stuck it to the refrigerator. She set about making coffee and left Sam and Steve sitting drowsily at the table. She had so much energy but the whole day's ordeal lineup sounded exhausting. It made Steve realize just how little sleep he'd gotten that night. But, Sam splayed out over the couch and promptly fell back asleep, leaving Steve nowhere to nap. Instead, he sat at the table and kept working on his sketch. He'd just shaded in that half-smirk when he saw Bucky moving out of the corner of his eye.

 

He was creeping and doing so silently, so Steve had a bad feeling that he'd regressed again and not as far as earlier that morning. The deadness behind his eyes confirmed that. When Bucky caught him watching, he charged, like a bull, and toppled over the sitting table and two chairs before tackling Steve to the ground. Whatever had woken him had left only white hot rage, because he pelted Steve with a rain of blows, or aimed to, as Steve blocked them. Every left-handed blow was going to leave a bruise. Natasha heard but, with a look from Steve, stayed back. Sam was not so observant. He hit Bucky like a linebacker but didn't budge him. He did distract him long enough, though, for Steve to have a chance to push him off and pin him instead. With all three of them tacking his limbs to the floor, Steve was finally able to talk to him.

 

"Hey, hey, hey, calm down, Bucky. You're fine, Bucky."

 

"STOP CALLING ME THAT!" He still hadn't stopped fighting. "I'M NOT B–Bucky. I'm…" And then he fell still. "I'm…I'm…I'm…"

 

His eyes were shifting wildly, as if searching for the answer written on the ceiling. Steve waited. He was going to get there on his own again. He just needed time.

 

"I'm… I am Bucky. I'm Bucky." He repeated it a few more times under his breath with his eyes closed. "I'm Bucky. Bucky Barnes." There wasn't relief or comfort in his voice, just a declaration, as if saying it would make it a reality.

 

Steve knew it was the one fact of this world that he'd accepted and he was clinging to it like a lifeline. Even if it wasn't ideal, it was what he had. "Yeah, you're Bucky and you're safe here with us."

 

He studied them as each slowly crawled off of him. "You're Steve and Sam Wilson and Natasha," he decided and closed his eyes again. "And I'm Bucky." The finality of his voice was dour, his head falling with a thump against the concrete.

 

This was not the reality he wanted, as better as it was than the one he'd woken from. At least he'd retained his jadedness, Steve thought to himself and then sat down beside him without stirring him. He could wait until Bucky was ready to be a part of this little world of theirs again. Today was about his volition, after all.

 

He only had to wait eighteen minutes.

 

"You're still sitting there." Bucky said, one blue eye peering at Steve.

 

"Yes, I am. Nothin' better to do." By this point he was back to sketching.

 

"Humph." It snapped shut as he crossed his arms, but didn't stay so long. "Do you need something?" He asked, sitting up.

 

"No. I can wait."

 

"Wait for what?"

 

"For you to decide if you want to exist today."

 

"Humph." He wouldn't look at Steve but he also didn't lie back down. Instead, he drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. "That's not up to me."

 

"Sure it is. If you really wanted to, you could climb onto that pallet of yours, pull the blanket over your head, and refuse to acknowledge that the sun rose. I hope that you don't, but you could. It's all your choice now, what you do with yourself every day. So, do you want to exist today, or do you want to skip all that and put it off 'til tomorrow? 'Cause, I'll wait 'til then, 'til whenever."

 

Bucky murmured something that Steve didn't quite catch, but he had an inkling, and that inkling made his chest tight. "What was that?"

 

"Nothing. A memory."

 

Steve could hear it now, resounding louder and louder as he played it over in his head, melding together with the memory he too had: ' _til the end of the line_. Clearing his throat, he set down the now completed drawing of Sgt. Barnes, smug and valiant. Bucky seemed to notice it, to study it.

 

"Well, are you doing today, or not?"

 

"Yes," Bucky replied quietly and pushed the hair from his eyes. "I want to exist today."

 

"Good. Hopefully, with a little practice it won't seem like such an ordeal. We want you to feel comfortable and safe here, with us and with yourself. Now–" Steve had rocked to his feet and stood up, finding himself a little stiff from sitting on the floor. When he turned back to pick up the sketchbook he found Bucky holding it, holding it carefully out to him. "Thanks, Buck. Now, stop me if you remember this on your own, but part of day-to-day living is being clean, so a shower every day or so. Are you up for that?"

 

Bucky stood as well, still eyeing the drawing. "Yes, I can shower. I remember showering."

 

"Great. It's through there."

 

Bucky only flinched a little, when Steve patted his back, and followed his directions into the bathroom without incident. Once he'd made sure Bucky could work the faucet, that he had towels and everything else he needed, Steve thanked Banner silently that he didn't put locks on his bunker doors and sat down on the bed to wait for the water to shut off. Natasha joined him almost immediately.

 

"That went very well, good job."

 

Steve accepted the stacks of clothes she'd brought with her. "Thanks, I thought so too. He's gloomy, but he's definitely remembering things, old things."

 

"What he said? Under his breath?"

 

"Yeah. Last time he said that to me we were still living at home. Old stuff."

 

"And he owned it. That's positive."

 

"I…I guess he did. He called it a memory."

 

Natasha smiled at her hands and then stood. "All good things, Steve, all good things. Give us a shout if you need anything. Wilson's ready for breakfast 101 whenever."

 

He watched until the door tapped shut, reflecting. Had there been recognition in Bucky's face at that sketch? Acceptance? Nostalgia? There had been a certain, fond gentleness in his handling of it. Steve shook himself and climbed to his feet. Whatever had been there had been and only Buck knew for sure. Steve was only torturing himself by speculating. He took to laying out all the clothing on the bed, that at least kept his hands busy and his mind mildly occupied. Not for long enough, unfortunately. After twiddling his thumbs for a maddening amount of time, Steve stepped out to retrieve his sketchbook. Sam and Natasha were sitting in strained silence.

 

"Uh, has he drowned?"

 

Steve only shrugged at Sam. He didn't know.

 

"Well, could you stick your head inside and make sure he's not drowned, or gnawing his way out, or…anything else? We're dying out here."

 

"Wilson's bored," Natasha calmly explained and went back to scrolling through a webpage.

 

"I don't know, but I'll knock and make sure he's okay."

 

And he did. Bucky gave a curt 'yes' and then remained in the shower for another fifteen minutes. Steve looked up from his still life of the bathroom door when he heard the water shut off and held his breath. It wouldn't matter if he didn't, but Steve would take it as a good sign if Bucky came out of the bathroom in more than his skin.

 

"Everything alright?" Steve asked when he saw the frown on Bucky's face. He couldn't be too concerned, though, not while he was busy being pleased at the towel wrapped around his waist.

 

"Water went cold."

 

"Oh, well, it does that when you use it all up. The water heaters still only hold so much."

 

"Humph," was Bucky's sullen reply.

 

"Feel better?"

 

"Clean."

 

It was nearly all monosyllabic on Bucky's part and about a shower, but Steve and Bucky were having a conversation, an actual back and forth conversation, for the second time in over seventy years. Steve swallowed a grin and then pointed to the clothing.

 

"That's good. Clean's good. Uh, we don't have much of a selection, but here are some clothes, if you wanna… pick some to wear."

 

Steve listened to the water drip from Bucky's hair to the floor as he waited. Drip, drip, drip. Neither moved, Steve watching Bucky's face, Bucky staring blankly at the clothing on the bed. Drip, drip, drip. He hadn't dried himself off at all except with wrapping the towel around. There was going to be a puddle around his feet. Good thing the bunker was all concrete floors. Drip, drip, drip.

 

Finally, he looked quickly at Steve, a flash of panic in his eyes, and then down at the floor. "I don't know. It doesn't matter."

 

"Okay…" Steve didn't know what to do. He hadn't expected choosing clothing to be a serious hurdle. "Don't worry about it. It's not a big deal. Just clothing."

 

"I don't know," Bucky said again, a little sharper this time.

 

"You don't have to _know_. It's more about what you like. What is your eye drawn to?"

 

"I. Don't. Know."

 

"I'm not going to choose for you, Buck. This is something you'll need to do for yourself from now on. Here," Steve picked up the shirts and pants, leaving just the underwear. "Start with the underpants. They're easy, no one sees them."

 

Bucky's jaw was clenched closed. He was glaring at the bed with deadly intensity. It was pretty clear that this was a struggle for him, he had no preferences anymore, not that he could remember. When he spoke again, his voice was small and defeated.

 

"I don't know."

  
"That's alright, Bucky. No big deal. All that is going to happen is you put these on to wear and cover you. They don't really matter, like you said to begin with. It's either this pair, this pair, or this pair," he picked up each set in turn. "And you just put them on."

 

With eyes down-turned Bucky nodded. He was contemplating something, but just what was unreadable from his face. Eventually, he looked up and pointed to the center pair.

 

"Okay, the blue." Steve tossed them to Bucky. "Now, dry off and pull 'em on." He half-hoped Bucky would take the underwear and return to the bathroom to put them on, but that was overambitious. He turned his back and, gathering up the rejected underpants, laid out the pants next, blue jeans and two other canvas pants, tan and black.

 

Bucky looked lost when Steve turned back to him, his arms hanging limply beside him, hair still dripping. He'd at least put the towel over his puddle. Steve reflected on how surprised Bucky had been when he'd first seen Steve post-serum. He wondered if that was anything like how he'd felt seeing how changed Bucky was now. This wasn't the lightweight boxer who'd left for war, or even the trained sergeant. Bucky's transformation was almost as extensive as Steve's, and that wasn't accounting for the metal arm. He even seemed taller, possibly was.

 

"Uh… pants?"

 

There was no cheerless 'I don't know' this time, only Bucky's tired eyes on Steve's.

 

"You gotta choose, Buck. I'm sorry, that's the way it is. No one's making decisions for you anymore."

 

Bucky drew a deep breath and then stepped towards the bed. He looked at each set of pants carefully in a row and then returned to re-inspect them with methodical focus. After giving up on choosing by sight, he touched each of them with his right hand and gently set aside the blue jeans. Weighing the remaining black and khaki pants in his hands he stared at them again. His hair was still dripping. Pushing it out of his face again, he settled on the tan canvas pants. It was the choice he would have made many years before, Steve thought.

 

"Oh, hold on," Steve snapped his fingers and ducked back into the bathroom, coming out with a comb and extra towel. "This'll help with the dripping."

 

Bucky looked at the things in his hands and then back at Steve. "How?"

 

"You…you comb your hair and dry it with the towel. It gets the water off… or helps to."

 

A crinkle deepened between Bucky's brow. " _How?_ " He didn't know how, literally.

 

"Do you want me to help?"

 

He nodded.

 

"Alright. We'll choose the shirt afterwards." He finished putting the other pants with the unchosen underwear and set aside the shirts, taking the towel and comb back from Bucky's hand. He pocketed the comb and shook out the towel first. "I've always kept my hair short, so I'm just winging it here."

 

"You did it before," Bucky said. He was right, of course. It was strange to hear him talk about remembering the shower-by-hose event. It made Steve embarrassed.

 

"Yeah, I did. So, I think the way to go about this is with the towel, then the comb, then maybe the towel again. It's… it's really up to you, but we do need to stop the dripping to save the shirt, if for nothing else." He handed Bucky the unfurled towel. "Now, put it over your head and… uh… rub your hair."

 

Bucky complied easily. He was good at following directions, Steve noted and then felt sick.

 

"Right, so whenever you're happy with that, we can try the comb."

 

Thorough. That was the word to describe new-Bucky. His hair was a ratted mess when he handed the towel back to Steve. "It's dry now."

 

"Yes. Yes, it is. Do you want to try combing it now, or…"

 

"I don't care."

 

"Right, well… _I_ would look in the mirror and decide if I were happy with how I looked before I made that decision."

 

Bucky snorted and trudged to the bathroom, coming right back to Steve with his hand held out for the comb. "You can say I look ridiculous. I don't have feelings to hurt." He clearly did, though, and they didn't appreciate Steve's use of kid-gloves on them.

 

"Okay. Well, it's really your choice–"

 

"I get it. It's my choice. What do I do next, damn it?"

 

"You run the comb through your hair and work out the knots," Steve said, somewhere between being surprised and amused. He'd had a temper on him since being the asset, but this was a new manifestation of it, a little more like the one stemming from impatience and disillusionment, both traits Steve had seen many times before.

 

"This isn't working."

 

Steve looked up and winced. The comb was lodged in an enormous tangle. Tines popped off as Bucky tugged again. "No! Yeah, no, it's not. I don't really know what I'm doing here. Let me get someone who does."

 

Bucky sighed with more melodrama than Steve thought possible and sat on the bed as Steve slipped back out into the main room.

 

"Sophie's Choice in there?" Sam asked.

 

"I'm not sure. Maybe. Haven't gotten to that movie yet. Natasha, I need your… expertise."

 

Natasha quirked an eyebrow but followed nonetheless. "Something you need to warn me of, Steve?"

 

"No, he's dressed, mostly. It's… well…" he opened the door and nodded to Bucky sitting with his arms crossed and the comb embedded in his hair.

 

"Oh… that's… not really…"

 

"Yeah, I know, help. Please." He ushered her inside and shut the door.

 

"I'll just wait out here then!" Sam shouted through the door, but Steve was too busy to respond. Bucky was glaring venomously at Natasha.

 

"Guys, you always start from the bottom and work up. Always." Natasha clicked her tongue and then, ignoring all warning signs of Bucky's body language, plopped down beside him and began delicately plucking the strands of hair away from the comb. She had it free in a matter of moments. "There. Bottom up, otherwise the tangles get pushed together and amass into one big one, like that."

 

Bucky accepted the comb again and started it through his hair, bottom to top. When Natasha saw that all was well with that, she nodded and slipped from the room again. Careful, but not glaring, eyes followed her. There was so much happening across Bucky's face, but Steve couldn't work out much of it. Not like before.

 

He settled with, "you can thank her later."

 

Bucky grunted and then stood to hand Steve the comb back. "Finished."

 

"Good. Now, shirts. Grey, blue or black?"

 

Sam was flat out floored by the fact that it took a whole hour and a half for Buck to shower and choose clothes to wear. He was not, however, at all surprised when he stepped out in khakis and a black shirt. It was half-way in between 'Steve Rogers' and 'The Winter Soldier,' right about where Buck was identifying with.

 

"Alrighty," he said, standing and clapping his hands together. "You hungry, Buck?"

 

He nodded.

 

"Well, good thing you've got me, otherwise you'd be learning how to live off pancakes and cereal. Not in Sam Wilson's kitchen, though. We can make whatever you want."

 

His enthusiasm was met with nonplussed silence.

 

"Don't let him fool you, Barnes," Natasha filled the silence, "you can survive off of cereal if you try hard enough."

 

"I can cook more than pancakes," Steve added almost offended.

 

Buck was still silent.

 

"So, what do you want to make to eat?"

 

If they had been outside, crickets would have chirped. Sam was at a loss. No wonder it had been like a trip to the dentist, getting him dressed.

 

"Maybe if you give some suggestions to choose from…" Steve offered, dad voice activated.

 

"Right, suggestions. I can teach you one of a few basics this morning, Buck. A traditional eggs and bacon, a hash, or bitchin' french toast. And you'll like it this time," Sam added, thinking back to the poor, sodden fall-spice toast he'd collected untouched from Bucky's first cell.

 

It didn't matter, though. He might as well have been talking to a brick wall. Bucky only stared and waited. Looking to Natasha gave Sam no help. Steve shrugged with tired eyes. Fine. He'd play the twenty questions game like he had to when he watched his niece and every answer out of her mouth was 'no' or sometimes the rare 'yes.'

 

"Do you want sweet or savory?"

 

Buck screwed up his face. He didn't know, so Sam pulled out the spices for each and held them out for him to smell.

 

"Which smells better to you? Is more appealing right now?"

 

After a sniff of each, savory was selected. No, his french toast's honor was not to be restored just yet. Sam reached instead for the carton of eggs and pack of bacon in one hand, and a sack of potatoes in the other.

 

"Start easy with bacon and eggs, like you ate for the first time with us, or gourmet hash, somethin' new?"

 

Buck's eye lingered on the bacon. "That. Please."

 

In the long run, Sam was really glad that Buck had chosen plain old bacon and eggs. There were dead silences and pained looks enough with the few choices he had to make while cooking those. If he'd had trouble with 'how done do you want your eggs?' he would have had an aneurysm with 'what all of these twenty foods do you want in your hash?' and would have had a knife to skewer Sam with instead of dicing those twenty foods. But besides the mental anguish involved in decision-making, Sam thought Buck did well cooking. He even looked like he was not quite as gloomy while he was working, and he sat down and ate it with such gusto, there seemed to be some relish there from having made it himself.

 

Really, Sam felt pretty proud. His task had gone off without a hitch. Buck made and then inhaled his food, and didn't kill anyone in the process. Mission accomplished. He sat back and watched Steve and Natasha toil over teaching the concept of washing dishes without breaking them. That was something he happily avoided. They would owe this Dr. Banner a few plates and, unsettlingly, some silverware. To his credit, though, Buck was a great learner. He was attentive and crazy smart (despite knowing basically nothing about nothing except assassinry), just lacking a little patience. The sad part was that he was most impatient with himself. The one tantrum-like moment he had was because he just couldn't get that left hand to hold a plate for the right to wash it without crushing it.

 

Even then, it hadn't been violent. Buck had growled a string of words that were not English and then, putting down the sponge, had marched to sit on his pallet with his arms crossed and eyes shut. Steve coaxed him out with a story of him breaking Tony Stark's wine glasses at the stem every time he was offered one.

 

"They're too damn fragile," Buck had said and then begrudgingly followed Steve back to the sink. He'd scrubbed with the left and held with the right. It was clumsier but less destructive.

 

Sam counted his blessings again as Bucky stood glowering down at Natasha, still at the sink. He was not good with the idea of washing clothing. That, or he was sick of standing at that sink and feeling like a bull in a china shop. He didn't complain or ask to do anything else, and much more quickly he was washing clothing while Natasha sat on the counter beside him, swinging her legs and giving him pointers.

 

Meanwhile, Steve had fallen asleep with his face on his hand at the table. He'd been quite the trooper. He deserved some rest, so Sam left him alone and started on the grocery list Natasha had asked of him.

 

"What happened?" Buck was holding up his shirt from two nights before. He looked as shocked as they had ever seen him.

 

"You're an active sleeper," Natasha said diplomatically. "Don't worry about the hole. I'd work on the stain."

 

Just the sound of suds and splashes followed. It was almost peaceful, in fact. Buck was real zen with clothes washing. He'd ask a question here or there or comment very rarely, but besides that the room was quiet. Until Steve's face fell off of his hand. Sam had noticed him slipping for a while but he hadn't wanted to wake him and he'd figured Steve would wake before he face-planted into the table. He'd been wrong and Steve must have been tuckered the fuck out. His hand and forehead hit the table with a BANG and everyone in the room had jumped. Natasha had landed on the ground, poised for attack, a gun pulled out of nowhere, Steve had sat up, a little sheepishly, Sam had broken the pencil tip, and Bucky had grabbed the nearest thing he could reach to use as a weapon – a skillet – and had held his arm out in front of Natasha, stepping towards Steve. It was kind of cute, actually, him going to protect her with a skillet when she had a Glock. The best part was the moment he realized no one was attacking. Awkward didn't even begin to describe it and he returned to scrubbing clothing with petulant ferocity. 

 

No one teased him. He wasn't ready for that, despite it being a prime opportunity. Sam did give Steve a hard time, aiming a mixture of 'hard-headed' jokes at him until Steve laughed. It was a good sound, one not heard nearly enough, and made Buck turn around. He didn't join in or anything, but it drew his attention.

 

After he and Nat hung up the washed clothes in the containment room (on wall cuffs hilariously), Buck walked back into the main room and stood in the middle of it, staring at them like he was lost.

 

"What now?" He asked when no one prompted him to anything else.

 

"Now we have some time to relax. Life isn't all go and do."

 

"Relax?" Buck didn't look like he liked the sound of that.

 

He stayed standing, watching them as Steve pulled out his 'catch-up' list and googled _Sophie's Choice_ , as Nat picked up one of Banner's theoretical physics books and began reading it with her feet curled up under her, as Sam pulled up Sudoku on his phone. When it became clear that they weren't going to answer him, Buck paced around the edge of the room, inspecting what each of them were doing. Stopping behind Sam, he stared at the screen while Sam fiddled with a row and then continued watching a little closer as the puzzle came together. Nat evidently was not reading, but rather watching, and once Buck was close enough to be almost leaning over Sam's shoulder, she stuck a foot out and pushed a few pages of print outs subtly in Buck's direction.

 

He noticed them when he sat down between Sam and Steve and pulled them closer. They were the crosswords Nat had promised to find. Buck considered them for a full Sudoku puzzle, putting them down, pushing them far away, gathering them back to him, before picking up the pencil. Sam caught Steve smiling, but Buck didn't notice, he was laser-focused on this puzzle.

 

They got a good hour of peace from that puzzle. Bucky nearly finished it, too. He had only a few pop culture things he couldn't answer but was too stubborn to ask for help on. Steve took another nap and at some point Natasha disappeared into the back to reemerge smelling like soap. It was Sam who called an end to their reverie, and that was because he was starving. With his lunch idea list in hand, he moseyed back into the kitchen and pulled out the main ingredient for each dish, as selection aides for Buck.

 

It seemed to be a tenuous transition period to Natasha. She was on edge at the prospect of stopping Bucky from doing something that he actually enjoyed before he was voluntarily finished with it. She watched from behind her book, her hand on her gun, but didn't intercede. She didn't want to call any attention to the moment and thus make it charged. Sam was either oblivious to the snake pit he was wading into or thought fearlessness was the right approach.

 

"Dude, Buck, when you're game, I'm ready to fix some lunch. Sooner rather than later."

 

Natasha's caution was unnecessary. Bucky looked up quickly but his face was calm.

 

He nodded and joined Sam in the kitchen.

 

"Oh, you hungry?"

 

Another nod.

 

"Good. Here are our choices: pasta salad, hamburgers, or tacos. Yes, they almost all have ground beef in them but Nat brought some in yesterday and it's been eating at my soul just sitting in that fridge drying out. So, thoughts?"

 

Natasha noted with a grin that none of those dishes required knife work. Sam was catching on after getting lucky with breakfast. That hash would have been a massacre, for now. She also grinned at the fact that Steve had jerked awake again at the word 'hamburgers.' She wasn't the only one to notice.

 

"Hamburgers it is, then," Sam announced, setting aside the list. He was grinning too but Natasha couldn't be sure if that was because he'd wanted that choice or because he'd seen what she had. It was the quickest choice Bucky had made to date.

 

The whole cooking a meal for more than himself adventure went well over all. Sam did not cope exactly calmly with Bucky turning the meat with his left hand, but he got over it quickly. Bucky said that he couldn't feel it and then kept doing it, so Sam had very little say in the matter. Only later did he mention that it was unsanitary, but, just as quickly, Bucky quipped back that he'd washed his hands beforehand. Little by little Natasha saw some personality there. He was surly and obstinate and quick-tempered, but he wasn't lacking a sense of humor anymore, which was a start even if he didn't express it for everyone to see. She had a feeling that even if Bucky found something funny he wouldn't smile, but knowing that for sure would have to wait. He might be getting feistier but he wasn't ready to let his guard down that much yet.

 

Steve ate that hamburger with such relish it seemed like he'd been the one who was starving for years. Natasha knew why, though. It tasted that much better because Bucky'd made it and chosen to do so and because he'd made it for him. He was proud and hungry. She ate as well, but not quite as ravenously. Other things were on her mind, first and foremost how they would broach the subject of Bucky's appearance. He'd developed personality enough that they might offend him by suggesting he do something different. But then again, he might be clueless still. It was hit and miss with him.

 

As he stood and followed Steve to help with the dishes, Natasha ran scenarios over in her head. He couldn't choose the color shirt he wanted to wear without a crisis of self but he had used his bare, albeit metal, hand to flip burgers without a blink. He knew what he could do with his body, but not what he liked with that body and his appearance was an intersection of those two poles. He hadn't crushed anything out of rage today, though, so chances were that his worst reaction would be to stomp off and refuse interaction if he were offended. She decided quick and up front would have to work.

 

He was drying dishes when she hopped onto the counter beside him. Another mark of his improvement overall was the shorter glares she was earning. This time he only glanced at her coolly.

 

"Well, Barnes, I have another decision to lay out for you."

 

Steve's brow furrowed on Bucky's other side, but he kept washing. Natasha only got the 'watch yourself' look from him while Bucky waited patiently. He was getting used to making decisions, or at least with the idea of it.

 

She picked up a freshly cleaned spoon and looked at her reflection on its reverse. "Are you happy with your appearance?"

 

The heavy frown that followed was more confusion than insult, so Natasha continued.

 

"Are you happy with how you look? Do you like your hair as it is? Do you want to shave or not? Those kind of things."

 

Bucky ran his right hand over his cheek and jaw. "It itches."

 

"There you go, it itches. So, do you want to shave?"

 

He looked at Sam then Steve then felt his face again. "Yes."

 

"Alright, we'll get you shaving again. How about your hair? Are you happy with it?"

 

"It's in my eyes a lot," he replied, pushing it out of his eyes as if to demonstrate.

 

"We can cut it if–"

 

"No. Not… I don't want it short."

 

Natasha and Steve sighed together. Those were weighted words of Bucky's, echoing with unsaid things: 'not again,' 'not like _that_ Bucky,' 'I'm not that man anymore.' Even if he didn't say them right out, his face made it plain and clear. For once it wasn't dark with distrust and anger and contempt. This was shame and sadness. That hair was going to be his tag, the thing he kept to self-shame and separate himself. Natasha knew that impulse. She couldn't argue with it.

 

"Fine. That's fine. I can show you how to tie it back, though, so it's not in your face all the time."

 

He nodded. He was a master at nodding. Eye contact was still iffy.

 

"Okay, we'll tie it back for you from now on. In fact, we can do that when you're done here, so you can shave without it getting in your way."

 

Another nod. "Thank you."

 

"You're welcome, Barnes." She hopped from the counter and, resisting the urge to pat his arm, padded to the bathroom. Sam caught her look and followed.

 

"The hair. He's not parting with the hair."

 

"No, it's his shield. We'll let him hide behind it."

 

Sam clicked his tongue as he rummaged the cabinets for a new razor. "That's a shame."

 

"No, it's _his_ shame. I'm pretty sure he's keeping it to make sure everyone who looks at him knows what he is."

 

"And what is he?"

 

Natasha sighed, "I don't know yet, but he's not Sgt. Barnes."

 

"He's not Kurt Cobane, either. He should cut that grungy ass hair."

 

They both fell silent as the bedroom door clicked open. Natasha finally found a fresh razor and shook her head at Sam. This conversation was over. Bucky stepped inside first, looking resigned, with Steve and his now-permanently worried expression following. Hair tie on her wrist Natasha handed Bucky another one and stood with her back to him.

 

"Here. Watch me, then you try."

 

She waited until she could see him in the mirror following her motions and then tossed her head back. She made a point to move more slowly. This was the one millionth and a half time she'd put her hair up. It was his first. Her motions were fluid but deliberate: hair gathered, tie pulled around it, twist, pull, twist, pull. 

 

"And that's it. Got it?"

 

As usual, Bucky nodded but didn't speak and then copied her to a tee. It was as good as was going to get with the length of his hair, a tiny little nub of a tail with a few shorter strands falling around his temples. In truth, Natasha thought it suited him. At any rate, it was a huge improvement on the filthy Viking look he'd been stuck with. Thor at least washed his hair and pulled it back some.

 

"Looks good, Barnes. What do you think?"

 

He took longer to respond. There was something new in his face as he looked in the mirror. At the end, though, he just nodded again. As good as they were going to get.

 

"I think it looks good, too, Buck," Steve added and Sam echoed.

 

That was it, then. Bucky Barnes wore a ponytail. Natasha's job was done there, and she knew that he was more relaxed when she wasn't around, so she slipped from the bathroom and let the boys deal with shaving. She had a pdf to finish compiling anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

Natasha had old smells in her nose, old sounds in her ears and a bolt of lightning down her spine when the guys stepped out from the back room. Bucky looked a different man clean shaven. He was even carrying himself differently, she thought, but pushed all that from her mind. This was now. Other things were at hand, more pressing concerns. For one, their startling lack of _things_.

 

Banner had kept the place well stocked, but that was for one man with simple tastes and a penchant for living like a monk. The four of them needed more of it and of more variety. It also didn't help that Bucky had come to them with literally nothing, so they were starting from scratch with him and he burned through things quickly. Clothing was most needed. He would need a better collection of it and one with some more sensible pieces, like long sleeves. That arm was no easy thing to hide much less explain away. _It's a metal arm, haven't you seen a man with a metal arm before?_ She could just hear the wounded gloom of a pre-slaughter accosting. No, better to keep curious eyes off of him at all costs.

 

She pulled up the document she'd been putting together and finalized it into pdf, leaving it open on the laptop. "Sit," she nodded to the computer and met Bucky's eye with some difficulty. _How backwards_ , she reflected and steeled herself. "I need you to choose some clothing that you like so I can get it for you. You'll need it when we start venturing out into the world again. Write the numbers for the ones you like on this pad here," she slid her notepad and pencil next to his hand, "and come find me when you're done. Try to choose ten or twelve, not too many more or less. Five or six of each, tops and bottoms. Okay?"

 

Bucky nodded so Natasha melted back into the bedroom, the door closing behind her. Steve found her sudden unsocialness unexpected but not odd. She'd not had much privacy with the three of them and she was a fairly furtive person. He let her go without question and made a note to ask how she was doing with all this next time they had a moment or two together. Maybe ask after Barton. He hadn't heard from the archer in a while, or heard about him from Natasha. Strange. Or maybe he was just too caught up in his own business. Natasha did still wear the arrow charm around her neck.

 

Dog-earing all that, he turned back to Bucky. Poor Bucky sat at that computer, staring at dozens upon dozens of pictures of clothing that he had to choose from. He was so lost.

 

"I'd scroll through the whole thing, Buck, marking down the ones that catch your eye on the first go. You can narrow it down from there afterwards." He thumped Bucky on the back and sat down across from him, book in hand. He was still catching up on things, after all, and a life like his didn't allow for much quiet reading time. He was going to take advantage of it.

 

"That's if I can choose that many," came Bucky's sour-voiced reply.

 

Something about choosing his clothing was so difficult for him. A little voice in Steve's head told him, in similarly sullen tones, that clothing was self-expression and Bucky was painfully aware that he had no self to express just yet. It's hard to decide how you want to look when you don't know what you like or dislike in the least, much less how you want to look like you like to others.

 

"Just give it a try. If you go through it and come up with nothing, I'll help."

 

Bucky half-growled in response but Steve heard the clicking of keys soon after, and even later the scratching of pencil. It was weird how he knew how to read and write and could use some technologies but couldn't remember learning to or even using those skills. Steve sucked on his teeth and decided not to muse on that, his book was calling. Quite a few people had told him he should read Joseph Heller. This was his chance.

 

Not so many pages in, but enough, Steve knew the reason why he'd been so advised. He sighed and laid the book aside, deciding it was a better read for another time, under other circumstances. He had its meaning enough, sitting there in front of him. If the Second World War was a dark joke, Buck was its brutal punchline. Those words, even left unspoken, sat bitter on his tongue, so Steve got up from the table to find out what Sam was doing. He was watching a movie on the other laptop, some America-centric apocalyptic film. It's themic undertones tasted no sweeter, so Steve announced drearily that he was going to shower.

 

A quick knock on the bedroom door gained him access and Steve found Natasha laying on the bed on the phone. She mouthed 'shower?' with her hand over her cell's microphone and then waved him on. He was pretty sure the voice he heard over the line was Barton's. There was his answer.

 

Back out in the main room, Sam had noticed Buck's attention following Steve and had paused his movie in case of emergency. To bide his time, and for its own end, he got up to make popcorn, finding Buck now following him. He seemed edgy. Maybe he didn't like Steve leaving him. Maybe he didn't want Sam to leave too. He wouldn't blame him either way.

 

Popcorn popped, Sam sat back down and soon found he had a shadow. Buck was standing over his shoulder like a creepy uncle. The delicious smell of his movie snack no doubt drew him. Sam acted as though he hadn't noticed and put the movie back on, munching all the while. If Buck wanted something he could ask. That didn't take long.

 

"What is it?"

 

Sam glanced up and found Buck watching the movie, a bit to his surprise. "Oh, it's a movie. It's a thing where they–"

 

"I know what a film is. What is it?"

 

So terse. "It's _Independence Day_. Sit and watch if you want."

 

Buck did sit and he watched, too, but he seemed more concerned, as Sam had figured, with the popcorn. He inhaled it all very quickly, with Sam only getting a few handfuls in. When the bowl was empty, he handed it back to Sam and stood.

 

"Popcorn's good, film's lousy."

 

"Lousy? What'cha mean 'lousy'?"

 

"Inaccurate," Bucky responded dryly and sat back down at the table. "Aliens came to New York and by a wormhole, not ships. Nuclear device is right on."

 

Sam was left sputtering. "It's–it's science fict–you know this isn't a documentary, right? How'd you know about New York? This is a great movie!"

 

Buck shrugged and the bedroom door squeaked open. Nat's head popped out. "Everything okay? I heard shouting."

 

"Budding film critic over here ate all my popcorn."

 

"A true tragedy," Nat replied, just as dryly as Buck had a few minutes before. "You alright, Barnes?" She received a nod and disappeared inside, her voice muffled by the door, but picking back up on her phone conversation.

 

Still reeling from the affront to one of his favorite rainy afternoon flicks, Sam got up to make another bowl of popcorn, one that he would not share. Steve came out all showered up before it was finished.

 

"Oh, popcorn," he said, bright-eyed and Sam sighed. Another super-appetite to share with. Would he get no peace? But Steve wasn't sticking around to destroy the whole bowl, he grabbed a quick handful and pulled a chair up beside Buck. "How's it going?"

 

Buck grimaced and passed the notepad to Steve without a word and returned to tapping the 'down' key into dust.

 

"That's good, Buck, you already have eight and your only… most of the way through… That's fine. You've picked a lot on your own. We can go back through and add a few more."

 

Steve kept adding his encouraging comments to the chorus of Bucky's tapping and within a few minutes, Sam had successfully tuned them out and returned to his movie. It seemed to pass in a flash, though, the end credits rolling before he realized it. Maybe he'd fallen asleep, maybe he'd zoned out. Either way it was over and the clock told him it was seven. Time for meals part trois. There was a shit ton of pasta in this place, so Buck's choices were going to be pasta, pasta or pasta. He chose pasta.

 

Nat had graced them with her presence again as Bucky was helping Sam put the water to boil. She was currently reading over Buck's clothing selections. Her reaction to them was pretty clear.

 

"Barnes, you didn't choose any pants," she sighed.

 

"These work."

 

Sam snorted and he could feel Natasha's stare searing into the back of his head. Steve to the rescue.

 

"I thought he'd put down at least two."

 

"I changed them," Buck muttered, left hand in the simmering water. "It's not hot enough yet."

 

"No kidding, Buck," Sam scoffed and then nearly jumped out of his skin when Natasha's voice came not an inch away from his other side.

 

"Barnes, you need more than three pairs of pants. Besides, these one don't even fit you properly. The new ones I find will." She waited as Buck stared at the rapidly growing bubbles. "Please, Barnes."

 

He dropped his shoulders and stepped from the cooktop. "Water's ready."

 

"Thanks, Buck." Sam split the pasta and dropped it into the water, setting a timer and then turning to watch the ordeal of pants selection. Steve watched too, looking constipated. "Steve. Steve. Breathe, man. He'll be fine. It's just choosing pants."

 

"But, it's so difficult for him."

 

"And it'll get easier with practice. That's the point, right? Him getting used to making choices?"

 

"Yes. It is."

 

"Well, then, relax. You're giving me a stomach ache just lookin' at you."

 

Steve's constipation intensified as he turned to Sam. "Stomach ache?"

 

"Yeah, your confused face looks like you're trying to take a dump but can't."

 

With an enormous sigh, Steve's face fell and he trudged over to the table. No one appreciated humor around here. Just give him time, they would soon.

 

Quicker than anticipated, Buck was back stirring pasta and listening to Sam's instructions attentively. Steve, though, stayed at the table with Nat. Maybe Sam had offended him. Maybe he was just being sensitive about Bucky. One thing was becoming clear, though, they all needed to get out of this bunker. Everyone was getting restless in their own way. Sam hoped to himself over and over again during dinner that that night would be their last underground.

 

Steve felt much the same. The drab beigeness of concrete on all sides was beginning to make him feel claustrophobic. The air was clean and filtered, he knew that, but all the same it tasted stale, felt thick in his lungs. And he missed the sunlight. It worried him how the Bucky seemed to be growing accustomed to their subterranean box, worried that he would not feel safe up above ground, exposed. He wanted him to feel safe because he was with them, not because he was buried away from the fresh air and sky like a mole in its hole. And everyone was becoming testy, even Steve. He felt like running, running hard and far until other people's voices didn't sound like nails on a chalkboard.

 

It was time to move on. He would talk to Natasha about it in the morning, Natasha, who was stir-crazy as well, multi-tasking constantly and on her phone more often than not that evening. Steve wished he could talk about it with Bucky, run it by him first to make sure he was ready, but he also didn't want to ruin his mood. For the first time, Buck seemed basically content.

 

He sat quietly, as was he wont, after dinner and watched some nonsense television show that Natasha and Sam had actually agreed on. He didn't react much, but then again, he didn't react much. He was calm even if uninterested. Steve thought he was happy just to not be stuck with making choices. And then he noticed the twitching. Bucky's toes were tapping, constantly, like they used to when he was feeling anxious or bored. _He was bored_. Even Bucky was bored down here and getting fidgety. It made sense when Steve thought about it. Bucky'd only been awake during the last century, basically, when he was sent out to kill or destroy. He's programmed for action, big, exhausting action, and they'd had him choosing clothes and food. Yes, he was restless, too, even if he couldn't realize it yet.

 

When the show ended, Natasha slipped away, bidding them all good night and reminded Steve that he was tired as well as restless. It was well after sunset and he'd not slept well for two nights and not at all before that for several more. Bucky was in the same condition, in fact he was dozing on the couch. It was time for bed.

 

"Okay, sorry, Sam, but I think it's time to shut down." He nodded to Bucky, fluttering this eyes to keep them open, and Sam nodded.

 

"Lights out."

 

"Lights out," Steve echoed and tapped Bucky on the shoulder.

 

He sat up straighter and nodded. "Lights out," he repeated as well and then they all slipped off to their bunks.

 

Only Steve remained in the common room with Bucky. Natasha took the bedroom again and Sam retreated to the containment room without hesitation. Only Steve dared to stick out the chance of Bucky's nightmares. It was a big chance, but Bucky was his brother and Steve could feel that he didn't want to be alone. He'd followed them, a few feet behind and more slowly, but he'd followed them all day so that he'd only been left alone in the shower. Despite all his prickly sullenness and obstinacy, his fierce deadliness and glaring wariness, Bucky was either afraid or uncomfortable with being left alone. Steve wouldn't leave him alone.

 

Luckily for him, the violent nightmares didn't start until around dawn. Bucky had been tossing, turning and mumbling when Steve had tiptoed to the bathroom a few hours after midnight but it was no night terrors of the previous sleeps. When he'd slumped back onto the couch, Steve had heard something about ice cream and smiled. Bucky was dreaming about old things, good things from far long ago. He was sure no ice cream was served by HYDRA and he hadn't had any at war. It was comforting, that Bucky could escape in sleep still. Dreams may have been treacherous for him, full of dark places, pain and fear, but they could also be sweet. Fifty-fifty, he hoped.

 

The other fifty made an appearance, indeed, but perhaps after the ice cream they didn't seem so bad. Bucky was grunting, moaning and cursing, but he wasn't screaming. Steve sat upright with a groan and rubbed his eyes. The clock read 5:42 and Steve actually felt rested. He stretched and felt his joints crack. A bed would do him good. He looked thirty but sometimes he felt more his true age, times like this. Yes, it was time to leave.

 

Over in his corner, Bucky had twisted himself up into a cocoon of blankets and was lurching around with hands pinned to his chest. His jaw was clenched shut but he was still managing to growl something. It was in a language Steve couldn't understand and so garbled by tension and sleep he couldn't have said whether it was English or Russian. It was angry, though, angry and desperate but at least it wasn't screaming. Steve thought to wake him but there was no telling what that would cause, so he let him be. Better that he wake and work things out again on his own. All on his own.

 

That was fine. It gave Steve some time to plan. He would talk with Natasha, who by the sound of it was still sleeping or lying quietly in the back room, and then give Sam his way out if he should choose to leave. Then, once he was awake and his mind settled, Steve would tell Bucky that they were moving elsewhere. It would have to be slow and it would probably be a battle, but Bucky needed to have this discussion with Steve as much as the others, maybe more. Steve just hoped that the fidgeting he'd seen the last night would make it less of a battle and more of an agreement. He didn't know what he would do if Bucky refused. That wasn't a thought he could even entertain, it made his stomach twist too hard.

 

He was sketching in the dark, a quick memory of Peggy with a smile, when he heard Natasha's voice floating softly from the bedroom. Laying aside the pad and pencil, Steve snuck to the door and gave it a quick tap. Natasha's face, sleep-mussed but alert appeared almost immediately.

 

"You're up early," she breathed and held wider the door.

 

"So are you," Steve whispered back but didn't step inside. He wasn't going to leave Bucky alone. "When you're ready, I think it's time we plan to leave."

 

"I agree. I'll be out in a minute. We'll plan then." She turned away and then right back to Steve immediately. "But, we should be leaving today, I'd say. If I'm down here for another day, I'll…well we shouldn't be down here another day."

 

The door hardly tapped shut and Natasha reappeared. She was in sleeping clothes still, a t-shirt and boxers, men's boxers, and hilariously, tube socks. She sank into a chair at the table and folded her legs up underneath her. She looked so… small and normal, it was strange. Steve sat down across from her and pushed her the notepad she loved so dearly. But Natasha shook her head. Instead, chin on her fist, she glanced over at Bucky.

 

"He's quieter, stiller."

 

"He is. He had a good dream earlier, too. Talking about ice cream."

 

Natasha smiled, a real, full smile. Even in the near-dark he could see her green eyes brighten with it. "That's good. It's all good. We can leave, should leave. He's ready. At your word, I'll go out and find us cover IDs. I'd _love_ to go out to find covers for us."

 

"We should wait to see how he is when he wakes up, and to talk with Sam first, but yes, I agree. We should move to a new cover location as soon as possible. I don't want him to put down roots here, so the sooner, the better."

 

"Today," Natasha assured him. "I'll have us gone by the end of today. I… haven't been idle," she added with a slier grin than the first.

 

"Good. Thank you. While you're out getting that finished, I figured I could finish filling Buck in on things, but not the world. Like we said, he's still not ready for that."

 

"You'll tell him his biography."

 

"What I remember, yes. I'll try to be easy about it, but he's remembering so much in the chaos his mind's left as, I think he needs something clearer."

 

"Maybe. Or it may be that he'll want to ask questions to supplement the narrative he's already forming. Whatever you do, I agree that it's time." Natasha stood suddenly. "If that's the plan, Steve, I'm going to go finish making arrangements. Barton's been my eyes the last few days. He's found us some prospects."

 

Steve nodded and watched as Natasha padded back into the bedroom, cell phone already out. Of course, she had been talking to Barton. Of course, the two of them already had prospects. Natasha didn't act without planning, plan without thinking and she certainly didn't ever waste time, not a second. She'd been planning for their entire time there, not idle for a moment. Her restlessness was a side effect of having plans that were spoiling as they lingered. And also maybe other things, Steve didn't presume to know a lick about her personal life, but professionally it was certain: she didn't like dead time.

 

Sam slinked in a few minutes later and stopped at the coffee pot. He looked rough. "I don't like the air in here," he grumbled when Steve leaned against the counter next to him. "Give me sand and sky any night over this place."

 

"I know the feeling. You know, you _could_ sleep outside," Steve offered with a small grin. "But, in any case, you won't have to. If things go as planned, we'll be bedding down someplace else tonight. That's if you decide to come."

 

Sam was suddenly alert, disgusted shock on his face. " _If_ I decide to come? What does that mean?"

 

Steve was about to answer but then he heard a snuffle behind them. Turning, they both found Bucky sitting up groggily, freeing his hands and arms from the blankets. He gazed around in fear, then confusion, then recognition. The emotions flickered over his face like frames of a film until Bucky pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes with a sigh.

 

"That was… uneventful," Sam said quietly.

 

"Yes, yes it was," Steve agreed, smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. Improvement was just so encouraging. Nonetheless, the look on Bucky's face hadn't been sleepiness. It had been a bunch of things and none of them pleasant. Better hold off the smiling until Bucky was smiling too, or as close to that as he could come when he woke up.

 

Right that minute, though, there wasn't much of any emotion on Bucky's face. He was merely watching Steve watch him.

 

"Good morning, Bucky."

 

"Mornin', Steve." It was low, and sullen and spoken to the floor, but it was as lucid and civilized as could have been hoped for from him, especially just woken up. He stood slowly and stepped from his pallet. "Shower first?"

 

"Shower first," Steve agreed. This time, he actually smiled.

 


	6. SECURITY and STABILITY

"I didn't hear him wake," Natasha commented when the water's thunder fell to echoing against the bathroom tiles. She sat on the bed with her head cocked to the side, studying Steve. "I believe that's confirmation enough. And that smile of yours is there if I had doubted to begin with."

 

"He was better than I expected. Said 'morning' and volunteered the shower." Steve hadn't been able to quell his increasingly goofy grin. His hope was too rampant for his own good sometimes; within just the past five minutes he'd begun imagining all the good things this improvement foretold.

 

"And Wilson?"

 

Steve snapped back to the present. "Oh, I didn't really get to go over it with him, but I'm pretty sure he's coming. I'll talk with him more later."

 

"Good, because I think we'll need him. Is this your go ahead, Steve?" She stood, brow raised.

 

"It is. Please, go ahead and find us somewhere above ground to stay."

 

Natasha's cell chirped before she could respond. A smile answered him. "Oh, I've just about done that. I'll be back in a half hour with Barnes' wardrobe. After that give me… six hours and I'll have us complete cover IDs. You know how to reach me." She grabbed a duffle from beside the door and was out of there in a heartbeat.

 

Steve wasn't left alone for long, however. Sam pushed the door open tentatively a moment later. His eyes found Steve and then shifted around the room quickly.

 

"There isn't a naked amnesiac in here is there? I've seen enough of that as it is."

 

"No," Steve rolled his eyes. "He's still in the shower and he took clothes in with him."

 

"Good. Good for him. Okay, now what was all this about coming and going and me deciding whether to or not? Huh?"

 

Steve listened to make sure the shower's pattering sounds were as persistent as ever and then nodded to the bed. Sitting there kept them as far from the door as possible and less likely to be overheard by Bucky. 'All in good time' was the motto with Buck.

 

"We're moving from the bunker this afternoon. Natasha's working on cover identities for us all out in the real world. This won't be just a few days hiding, either. This is at least a few months, so I'd understand if you want to call it in now and head back to your life. We won't be offended."

 

"What? Leave now?" Sam scoffed, grinning. "And miss all the crazy shit that's 'bout to happen with you three? No way. I'm not bailing, not for the best part. My house is paid off, it can sit and wait for me to come back, ain't leaving. And, I already called the VA and told them I'd be on extended leave. No. I'm coming with." He thumped Steve on the knee as he stood. "Besides, I'd feel guilty letting you all starve. I'll start packing up the front."

 

Once the smiles started, Steve had a harder time holding them back. "Thanks, Sam. I'm glad to have you along."

 

"Damn right you are. I'm a treasure."

 

He chuckled as the door fell to the jamb. They did need Sam; Natasha knew it, Sam knew it and Steve felt it in his bones. Every extra hand was a gift and one that came with a kind word, fresh idea, or a joke was, indeed, a treasure. And Bucky could use an extra friend, as could Steve. Sam was invaluable. Steve was pondering what else Sam could teach them all when he heard the shower shut off.

 

As luck, or rather Bucky's healing mind would have it, there was no naked amnesiac to be seen that morning at all. Bucky emerged clothed, if still a little wet, a few minutes later, dragging a comb harshly through his hair. He took one look at Steve, wiping the comb on the towel over his shoulder, and asked, "what?"

 

"What? What, what?"

 

Bucky dropped his brow. "You're grinning. It's… disturbing."

 

Steve laughed, a short bark, and covered his mouth. It was a genuinely funny thing, hearing Bucky tell him his _grinning_ was disturbing, especially after everything else they'd been through respectively and together. "My smile is disturbing?"

 

"No. The fact you're smiling."

 

"Well, I'm happy."

 

"Why?"

 

"Because you're doing things on your own."

 

He assessed Steve with narrowed eyes but kept combing through his hair without a word.

 

"Ah, enough glowering. You'll get used to everything not always being gloom and doom, I swear. Come on, let's get some breakfast. We've got some things to discuss you and I."

 

Bucky wrung out his hair with his towel and then pulled it up off his neck. "Fine. I want pancakes."

 

"Great. Pancakes it is."

 

Natasha was already sitting at the big wooden table when they stepped out into the main room. She was tracing new scars in the wood with her knife, the big duffle bag filled to bursting by her feet. "Barnes," she said, tipping her head to him and kicking the bag his way. "Congrats, you've got a wardrobe."

 

He bent over and opened the bag, sifting through its contents and running the fabrics between his fingers. Bucky had a fascination with texture it seemed. "Thanks," he grunted and tossed the duffle onto his pallet before sitting down across from her heavily.

 

Natasha looked from him to Steve to Sam and then back around. With a tilt of her head she asked, "not yet?"

 

Steve shook his head. "After breakfast."

 

"We're having pancakes," Bucky informed her under his breath and then, as if remembering, stood and stalked to the cook top. He stared at Sam until he followed.

 

"Pancakes was it?"

 

Bucky nodded and the two of them started in on mixing batters. Natasha watched with amusement in her eye. Steve watched her until his curiosity couldn't keep quiet.

 

"Barton?" He asked jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

 

"He owes me this time, yes."

 

"Hmm…" Steve thought that over. "Will he be joining us?"

 

"No, I think not. At least not for a while. Three's enough for him for now. A new fourth might be pushing it while trust is still an issue."

 

"Maybe. But he has–"

 

"Shared experience? I know, I've been thinking it over. Maybe in time."

 

Hopefully in time, Steve decided but kept to himself. The marksman's 'shared experience' could really enlighten their interactions with Bucky and besides that Steve liked Clint, his easy-going nature, and often startling insights. He saw what many others didn't and differently from those who did and there was a reason he and Natasha were a unit. They worked industriously together and no doubt his presence would, in time, only help Bucky. Steve would bring it up again later.

 

"Are you staying for breakfast?" Steve finally asked to break the now strained silence between them.

 

"Oh, yes. I need to see his reaction before I make my final selections."

 

Steve had no idea what that meant, but he let it lie. Somewhere in the back of his head he reckoned she only wanted to see Bucky's reaction in general, just like Sam. Things were getting interesting with him and his budding personality.

 

"A little help over here, guys."

 

Steve and Natasha's heads both jerked up alert at Sam request and then both relaxed, almost in sync. The first batch of pancakes were ready, that was all. Waving Natasha back into her seat, Steve joined Bucky and Sam to hold the plate. It was smooth sailing from then on and breakfast went off without a hitch, leaving Steve with only the task ahead of him of talking with Bucky about moving. He delayed and delayed, eating more slowly than he thought possible and introducing other topics of conversation until he had one sad chunk of pancake on his plate and all three of them staring silently at him with suspicion.  
 

Bucky assessed the situation quickly and accurately. He looked at each of them in turn then back to Steve and crossed his arms. "What is it?"

 

"Nothing."

 

"Steve," Natasha warned.

 

"Okay, well, it's like I said before, we have things to discuss. I just wanted us to enjoy our breakfast."

 

Bucky's eye went from his empty plate to everyone else's and then, finally, Steve's single morsel. "We have. You're delaying."

 

Sam snorted and Natasha gave a quick, satisfied nod. Steve knew they were all right, it was just so potentially destructive, this conversation, and after all the improvements… no, he couldn't think that way. He just had to do it.

 

"Right," he shoved the last bite in his mouth and then hopped to it. "Here's the deal, Buck: this bunker has always been a short-term refuge. We were here because of its facilities, not its location–"

 

 "Which is, frankly, depressing," Sam added in. Bucky looked around like he'd never noticed the drabness of the place.

 

"Precisely, its lack of… aesthetic appeal is not exactly ideal and this is close quarters. It was just to serve for a transitional space for you, to help get you used to existing, not for the actual existing."

 

"A trial space."

 

"Yes, exactly, a trial space, like a gun range for practice but with controlled conditions. But now you've had your practice and we think you're ready for real-world conditions, to an extent. So, are you ready to try to be a part of this world again?"

 

Bucky had met Steve's eye while he spoke, but with the question had dropped his gaze to his hands. He stared at them for a beat and then shrugged his good shoulder. "If that's what you all decide is best."

 

Steve fought a sigh. Not the passive indifference again. He'd done so well with autonomy so far that morning. Natasha had more than a sigh for him.

 

"No, this is a decision you are entitled to make for yourself, Barnes. You can do that now, like you did yesterday, and you should continue to do so, to decide things for yourself."

 

Steve decided to rephrase his approach. "The thing is, Bucky, that we would move to another place and live like civilians, with new identities and jobs and daily lives. Normal lives. Are you ready and interested in doing some things outside of this underground cube and expanding your activities? If you don't think you're ready for that, that's fine too. We can stay 'til you're ready."

 

"But we think you're ready," Natasha interjected in an almost out-of-character affirmation. She was really tired of this bunker.

 

Bucky considered all that for a moment. He looked up and shrugged again. "I could stand to have a few more reasons to move around besides going to piss."

 

The bunker fell dead silent and then erupted with laughter. Sam was chuckling but Natasha let out a full, loud belly laugh. Steve did not share in their amusement. He sighed in a tired yet begrudgingly relieved way. It was profane but there was personality again in Bucky's answer. He had to be grateful on some level for that. Bucky watched their reactions with a veiled kind of smirk. If Steve hadn't known him as well as he did he would have only seen passivity on his face, but it was there, that bunching to the sides of his eyes, the pull inward on his lips. Bucky was smirking. Bucky was pleased with himself, he'd made a joke.

 

Steve only realized he was gawking a little when Natasha's hand landed with a soft pat on his back. "He's fine, Steve, stop worrying," she said, heading for the door. "I'll be back before sundown."

 

"Oh man, on that note, I'm going to shower and sleep forever." Sam sauntered into the back room still giggling and shut the door.

 

Bucky hadn't looked away from Steve, however. "You didn't laugh," he commented as if asking a question.

 

"Uh… no, I didn't. Did you… did you mean to make a joke?"

 

"No. Apparently I did, though, but not for you."

 

"Well, no… I was just surprised is all."

 

"At the comment or its content?"

 

"Both, actually. Very… frank."

 

Bucky sucked on his teeth and looked down with brow crunched. When he raised his eyes again he had just one eyebrow quirked. "Was I not…frank…before?"

 

"No, uh, no, you were, or you could be. Just usually…not quite so…"

 

"What?"

 

"Well, it's hard to say exactly."

 

"What was I like exactly?"

 

Steve's breath felt thick in his chest. He glanced up to gauge Bucky's attitude and found him sincere, almost with interest in his expression. He was calm and asking about his past, good. But even better, he was calling his past self 'I' and 'me.' He had to actively make his voice calm. "You want to know how I remember you being?"

 

"Yes. For reference."

 

Reference. Strange, formal choice of word, but Steve couldn't be disappointed in that moment. "What were you like… let's see, it changed over time, of course, some things did. You got more serious as we got older, but some things stayed the same. You were always very protective, you'd act irritated about it, but you liked taking care of me, I think. Even as kids, hell, especially as kids, you were always taking care of me. Though, that didn't stop you from getting us in trouble."

 

Steve smiled at a memory and looked at Bucky, only in his eyes, and it almost felt like they were back there in that park again, hatching mischief.

 

"You liked fooling around, jokes and tricks and games, and then later girls. And you smiled a lot, before the war. You were confident and happy and you usually had something planned. And you were smart, even though you didn't let hardly anyone know for a while. You worried a lot, though, underneath all that bravado. You worried when I should have been worrying, which was part of you taking care of me. I had a tendency for idealism that you never had. Practical in most things, you kept me grounded. And with the worrying you could get gloomy and little sharp with your words, but it was because you were being careful. And…"

 

Steve ducked his head. It was time to move down the road, to the darker parts.

 

"And you could have a short temper, especially with… well, with people who were endangering something you cared about."

 

"People messing with you."

 

Steve nodded. "Usually, yes, but there were others. Like in the war. The… the war changed all of us, I'm afraid. Things got darker for everyone. You stopped smiling, your jokes got a bit more bite to them… or tasted bitter. We all were bitter, but you were more than others, I think, bitter and disillusioned, from the HYDRA torture, I'd expect. You still took care of me, though, even when I was the one trying to save you."

 

Bucky was staring at the ground now, his head hung. Steve figured he should stop, but that wasn't all. There was so much more to Bucky that he needed to hear from him about.

 

"Sure, you were resentful and brooding, but you deserved to be and underneath all that you were still a good man, a great man, and my friend. You stuck by me through everything. Everything. Loyal. Loyal and selfless and…" he snorted, " and stubborn."

 

"Like you."

 

"We both were, yeah, are. Stubborn to a fault, some might say. And you were a damned good shot. Brave. A little proud, but you had reason to be, never reckless and always considerate. Sometimes impatient. A flirt. Ha. Even in the worst of it you were spouting lines. Sarcastic verging on cynical, no, by the end you were cynical. But there were still things you believed in, though, not as many as there could've been… your internment did you no favors."

 

Bucky exhaled a little louder than normal and Steve almost thought he was scoffing.

 

"Except… saving your life, maybe. And… right up to the very end you were taking care of me. You were a good man, Buck, a hero, but best of all my one, true friend from start to finish. It didn't matter how small and scrawny and sickly I was, how foolishly loud-mouthed and self-abusing I could be, getting into fights I didn't stand a chance to survive, or how I put a damper on any social situation, you stayed with me. You were kind and un-superficial and I'd never have survived without you for so many reasons."

 

Steve's voice was failing him and he had to stop. He sucked down a big breath and composed himself, adding for good measure, "you were my family."

 

"I remember." It was so quiet Steve nearly thought he'd imagined it. But then, Bucky looked up, eyes betraying a hint of sadness, and repeated himself. "I remember. Though, you have higher regard for me than I did."

 

"You remember?"

 

He nodded.

 

"You remembered before I told you?"

 

He nodded again.

 

"You… remembered but you wanted… it for reference?"

 

Another nod. "To check the memories against."

 

"And?"

 

"Much fits. Most, though, I think you're embellishing. Your opinion is far too high of me."

 

Steve laughed. "You told me once that my opinion of everyone was far too high. I saw the best in everyone and you thought that would bite me in the ass."

 

"Hasn't it?"

 

"A few times, yes. You were right a lot, but like we said, we're both stubborn." Steve sighed, this time nostalgic and a little content. "Does that flesh that out for you?"

 

"Yes." Then he paused. "And what am I like now?"

 

"Well, that's something you'll figure out over time, I think. You just decided to exist as a person yesterday, the personality's going to take some time to follow."

 

It wasn't quite true but Steve didn't want to bias Bucky any which way by telling him what he was and wasn't like now, not after how fondly he'd recounted former Bucky. He didn't want him to feel any less accepted, because no matter what, Steve was going to love him all the same. He was still his best friend and his family even if he decided he didn't feel the same way.

 

"I'm not going to be the same," Bucky said, that dourness and bitterness surfacing again.

 

"No, you're not, but neither am I. I'm not the same man who failed you on that train, much less who left you with two dames at the fair." Steve shook his head. "People change. As much as we hate it and try to stop it, it's unavoidable."

 

"That was before… my fall and now. What about in between?"

 

Steve winced. "I don't know, Buck. I–I thought you were gone and as for your alias… it was kept pretty deep in the shadows. Natasha called it a ghost story of the intelligence community. I doubt anyone alive knows what you were like then… though," he hesitated to say it, it would be brutal, but Bucky was past clueless naiveté. "Though, considering what they did to you… I don't think you were much like anything. Wh–what do you remember?"

 

Bucky's metal fist closed tightly. "I don't. Motions and deeds I can see myself doing, but I didn't feel any of it. It was numb except for a few moments." Suddenly he stood.

 

"Buck?"

 

"I want to write it all down."

 

"What?"

 

He turned and looked Steve dead in the eye, resolve steeled in his own. "I can't remember who I was then but I can remember what I did."

 

"Bucky… you're not going to–"

 

"I know. And I shouldn't forget. I didn't choose to do it, or feel doing it, but I did and it's part of who I am now. I need to remember it." It was the most he'd spoken yet and Steve could hear the conviction behind it. Bucky did need to do this, but more, he wanted to.

 

"Okay… just as long as you don't judge or punish yourself for it."

 

"I won't. But then I'll know."

 

"Know… what you did?"

 

"Yes, and what I was like. You can tell who a man is through his actions."

 

Steve sighed and watched Bucky pull Natasha's notepad to him along with the formerly discarded KGB file. He'd said he wouldn't but Steve could see from the set of his jaw and the disdain in his voice that Bucky would judge himself from what he found, that he'd have to do penance for it, that it would haunt him and give him a guilt complex to rival Steve's own, that he'd wear it like a scar, like his hair, marking him as damaged and different and somehow worth less than others. Steve could feel it in his marrow. He had withdrawn and grown sullen after his first capture, worn his clothes with less pride, stopped putting on the show. He'd do it again now but even worse. Because this time it had been worse.

 

"They weren't your actions, Buck," Steve reminded him but passed the rest of the folder's contents to him.

 

"But I had to act a certain way to do them all the same, _Steve_. That's what I want to know. You can't save me from that," he added in a grumble and started reordering the mission logs.

 

Bucky worked with unstinted focus for a good two hours. Steve stayed with him the entire time, answering what questions he could but mostly just reading what Bucky wrote from across the table. He got pretty good at reading upside-down after a while. Really, Bucky as the asset hadn't gone out on _that_ many missions. They seemed to have reserved him for the worst though, of course, the most brutal or delicate, or both. And he'd been an expert without question, precise and efficient without a failed mission, until the last.

 

But that's usually how it was, you never really failed in their business until you did and that was generally the end of you. In a way that was still true with Buck. He wasn't the Winter Soldier anymore and he wasn't Sgt. James Barnes anymore either. As he was coming to find out he was neither and both at the same time. He was some mixture and, thankfully, he was discovering that just what mixture was essentially was up to him.

 

"Steve?"

 

"Hmm?" He glanced up from the musty old photograph of Bucky in cryo he'd been staring at until it wouldn't hurt anymore. It hadn't stopped yet.

 

Bucky was writing ferociously. At that moment, it looked like from memory as all the logs were turned over in a pile. "Who's Barton?" He asked when he saw Steve was looking at him.

 

"Barton? You mean–"

 

"Who you and Natasha were speaking of together this morning."

 

"Oh." Steve hadn't realized that Bucky had been listening then. Hadn't taken into account that he might always be listening and always processing what he heard. "He's a friend, a fellow, uh…"

 

"Intelligence specialist?" Bucky suggested with no small amount of inflection. He remembered Steve's euphemism from what felt like years ago and found it a thing worthy of sarcasm.

 

"Yes, he's a–was a spy agent like Natasha, but first and foremost he's a marksman."

 

"Sounds familiar."

 

"Yes, different agencies, same method… same effect. We know that now."

 

"Is that what you meant by shared experience?"

 

Steve pushed a long breath through his teeth. How to explain this? "Yes and no."

 

"That's not ambiguous."

 

Steve couldn't help laughing. "Okay. So you've elected to remain a sarcastic jerk."

 

"Apparently. And you still think you can avoid questions with sassy remarks." He caught Steve with one of those under brow looks and left him laughing. He didn't join in. His mannerisms were returning even if his full humor wasn't.

 

"Ouch. Alright, he's been through more than assassin training in common with you. He was a little brain washed for a while, too."

 

"Only a little?"

 

"Jeez, no. He was brainwashed plain and simple, well not simple, magically. But same general concept. You two could relate on a few levels."

 

"Hmm. Sounds like a shit show."

 

Steve blinked at his friend. 'Shit show?' It was odd but he let it go. Bucky'd resorted to just as many profanities as the other men in the field. It was an outlet when everything else failed to express their grievances. Steve didn't remember that exact one, but Bucky must have.

 

"Possibly. Or it could help. Maybe we'll see."

 

"Maybe." Bucky set down his pencil and sat back.

 

Steve hadn't noticed him finishing writing. Looking over he noted, though, that Bucky had, in fact, finished, ending his list with his final failed mission of eliminating Steve and Natasha. Curiously, he had labeled them Captain America and Black Widow. He was flipping through the pages now, frowning at his past. Steve was a little sobered by how little Bucky had used the mission logs; he'd even recorded all of his American-directed hits without a reference. Clearly, Bucky's memory was recovering exponentially each day.

 

It didn't take long before Bucky tired of reviewing his list. Gathering up the sheets, he set them aside with a summary shake of his head.

 

"Are you alright?" Steve was concerned about backlash now. He could virtually see the table flipping out from in front of them and crashing into the wall.

 

"Yes." Bucky considered him and then added, "I'm not going to throw a tantrum, if that's what you're worrying about."

 

"A _tantrum_ I can deal with, it's you I'm worried about, your mental state."

 

"I'm fine. I know the difference between me and this," he flicked his left hand at the papers. "And James Barnes, too."

 

"Okay… so, what's bothering you?"

 

"No one else will know."

 

That gave Steve pause. He stared at Bucky, trying to work out what he meant, but those blue eyes were as unreadable as when he first saw him again. "What?"

 

"The difference." He continued when Steve only gawked. "It's all the same person to everyone else. You see one body, you think one person."

 

Bucky was worried about what other people thought now? When had he moved from his bodily integrity to his reputation?

 

Words still came slowly to Bucky, or perhaps he toiled over them carefully. But Steve waited patiently. When he continued, Bucky spoke to the table.

 

"People will think they know me, as one or the other. But they won't. And that won't matter." His metal fingers made clacking noises against the wood. He tapped them in rapid succession as he selected his next sentence or so. "They'll judge me either way… These lives may have been taken from me but they're still affecting me."

 

He was haunted by lives lost _and_ what took them. Those lives weren't his anymore, but Bucky couldn't have been more right, their legacies were still his and he'd never escape them. He'd lost and then lost some more because of that loss. Steve felt himself sweating, that sticky beading sweat that doesn’t cool you off. The sweat right before you vomit.

 

"Those who see me and think James Barnes will expect… loyal, caring, sarcastic. All those qualities you remember. The others, who see me and think… HYDRA asset… they'll expect this. Ruthless. Effective. Terrifying. An elite assassin, murderer, and terrorist." Bucky shoved the list to Steve now, disdain written all over his face. "Well, I'm neither! Or… some of both… I don't know! How can I go out there and face them? Those people expecting these men, when I'm not them but I don't know who I am?"

 

Steve swung his chair around the table and caught Bucky's shoulders. It was probably crossing the line, could have earned him a one way ticket through a wall, but Bucky looked so pained and sounded so helpless he had to do it. The metal was cold under Steve's hand, but motionless. Bucky sat with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands as Steve tried to comfort him. He hadn't even flinched under the contact.

 

"By the time you face those sorts of people you will know, Bucky, I promise. Where we're going, no one will know you or who you were. It'll just be like meeting another stranger to them. You'll have a cover identity with a blank slate, and with that you can be whoever you want to be and whoever you end up being will be who you are. Then, when you know that, then and only then will you have to face others who know your past and it won't even be a worry in the back of your head. Promise. You'll be yourself and it'll be fine, and you won't have to explain anything to anyone. I promise that, too, unless you want to."

 

"And if I end up not being someone who can face those people? What then?" Bucky asked, voice muffled by his hands and possibly tears.

 

"That's all up to you, Bucky, up to your choice, who you're going to be. But, all the same, I can tell already that you will be able to face them. I'd bet anything on it, because you're the same in here," he swept his other arm under Bucky's right and laid a palm on his chest, right over the slow, steady thump of his heart. "And have been all the way through. That's why, even when you were empty and didn't know me, when I called your name, you didn't kill me. That's why you killed that handler that ordered you to do something unspeakable. That's why they had to chain you up in the van. Even when you didn't know who you were you were fighting on the deepest level against who you weren't. It's your core and it'll come through no matter what even without you knowing it."

 

Bucky breathed deeply, chest rising and falling under Steve's hand. He turned his head to glance at him from between the hair that fell around his temples. "You believe that?"

 

"That's what I believe. Absolutely."

 

"Well, let's hope I don't disappoint." He gently peeled Steve's hand away from his chest and, shrugging off his arm, stood. "For now, I have to piss."

 

"Damn, Buck, that was almost a touching moment." Sam was standing in the doorway of the back room. It was unclear how long he'd been there. "I mean, I came out expecting a fight, from the yellin', but then, what do I get? A rousing speech from Steve and a man hug. It was so near perfect and then you had to go and piss on it." Now it was clear.

 

Bucky snorted and stepped past Sam into the bedroom. Steve let his shoulders drop.

 

"That wore you out?"

 

"It did," Steve admitted as Sam sat in Bucky's seat.

 

" _You_ need a nap now."  
 

"No. I need help. I don't know what I'm doing."

 

"Doesn't seem that way. You handled that really well, I thought, though I don't get amnesia much."

 

"It's worse than amnesia, though."

 

"Yeah, I know. But I never get brainwashing, so I thought I'd stick within the range of relatability."

 

Steve laughed quietly despite himself. "Yeah, s'pose not. It's just… God, I don't want to fail him again."

 

"Yeah, I know. We all know, Steve. We can tell by how hard you're trying. If it makes you feel any better, it seems to me that's already past, your failing. It's up to him now. And he'll do fine, I think. With our help, how couldn't he?" Sam was wearing that cocky smile that you couldn't say 'no' to. "Am I wrong?"

 

"No," Steve exhaled, loudly. "I hope not."

 

"Exactly. Now, cheer up, sour puss. One grumpy old man is enough for the gang. Isn't that right, Buck?" He cuffed him on the shoulder as Bucky came back out into the living area. "Steve should leave the frowning to you, right?"

 

Bucky glanced at Sam, almost in warning, but then shrugged his good shoulder. "Optimism is more your bag, _if memory serves_." He let the irony of his statement hover like a fog and slumped back into his chair. "I'm hungry. Are we waiting for Natasha?"

 

* * *

 

Admittedly–and Natasha had to admit when it came to Barton–he had managed a good pull with what was available. But all the same, it was not what Natasha had hope for. Nonetheless, it had been worth the time and she felt better for it, for securing new identities and for seeing Clint. He made her feel sturdy even when she was hanging on by a thread.  
 

This was going to be difficult, though. A difficult sale for the guys and difficult going once they were sold on it. Like she'd told Barton, hardly ideal. He'd been right, however, when he'd told her it _was_ almost ideal in other ways: seclusion, room for work, desperation in the air. Almost like it was meant to be. It would work _well_ if they put some effort into it. She wouldn't be seeing him there, but she could handle that, had handled that. They had methods for coping, it helped that it wasn't love. Not that they had a word for it. The phone would do and she'd have a vehicle.

 

She was cutting it close now. She'd told them by sunset, the sun was setting. They'd have to move in during the night, also probably for the best. Sunlight didn't hide secrets well and Natasha only had one holomask. The arm was taken care of now, even in the moonlight. The leather was soft under her fingers as she drove. He'd tossed it to her with a roll of his eyes. It was too big for him anyways, never had fit. The guy he'd snagged it from had been more Barnes' size to begin with, another aligning of the stars. Clint knew Natasha didn't buy into that sort of thing, destiny, the lack of coincidence, but he liked to toss it out there now and again. She wasn't sure if it was because he did believe it or because he liked her reaction.

 

When he'd asked her why she opted for the one she had, Natasha told him it was because it would be easiest for all of them logistically. In reality, and she knew Clint saw this, it was because she thought it was liable to make them squirm, but in a way they could tolerate. Maybe that was why he talked about destiny, for the squirming. It was harmless after all, like this.

 

The three of them were staring, each at different levels of indifference, at the laptop, when Natasha returned. Bucky's eyes found her first. His were the quickest in most things, it was becoming clear, and the most piercing. He looked at her like he could see her last five hours, every second of it, and then moved to his pallet, nominally so she'd have a place to sit. Natasha knew he was keeping safe distance between them still. Steve looked like he was infinitely grateful that she'd returned. Somehow, he'd seemed more tortured than Bucky while watching whatever was on the laptop. Sam merely looked bored.

 

"How'd it go?"

 

Bucky was still watching her, even as Steve spoke. Natasha could swear he was almost smirking.

 

"We should pack as quickly as possible–"

 

"Already done."

 

She had to stop watching Bucky in her periphery. "What?"

 

"We packed everything already."

 

"You didn't notice?"

 

Natasha did notice, now, as she scanned the bunker. It was as bare as it'd been when they'd arrived. Bucky followed her as she caught up, face closed but eyes bright, a new expression indeed. He'd changed since that morning.

 

"Yes. Alright, let's get going then."

 

"Going to what, Natasha? Shouldn't you brief us first?"

 

She was rattled. All this time down here had taken it's toll on her. She wasn't on top form anymore. "If you want. I was thinking in the car, but it might be better here."

 

"Yeah, better here, Nat. Not all of us can multitask like you."

 

"I can," Bucky muttered over in his corner.

 

"Well, Buck can, and maybe Steve can, but I'll put it out there, I can't. So, let's find out here who were supposed to become and then go be them there, with the car ride in between to process and do the becoming. How long will that ride be, by the way, because I may need more time to become another person on top of it."

 

Sam was grinning like a fool, and not at Natasha. He fluttered his brow at Steve and then toed towards the pallet. He was grinning at Bucky's comment. Natasha followed suit and found Bucky shrugging at Sam, face relaxed now. It _had_ been a smirk, and on top of that, his little snide comment. Bucky had developed a whole new set of personality traits while she'd been away, almost like he had some sense of humor.

 

And suddenly he was interesting.

 

Just in watching him unguarded for five seconds Natasha picked up a whole handful of new – or maybe old, she didn't know – mannerisms. The stillness was a façade he was putting on at that point. That conclusion was confirmed when he caught her watching. He put the wall back up immediately. Now it was Natasha's turn to smirk. This _was_ going to be fun.

 

"Okay, Nat, we've got our notebooks out, lecture us." Sam did look a bit like an oversized schoolboy grinning up at her expectantly. Maybe she'd opted for the wrong cover. No, probably not: now he was doodling profanities on Steve's paper. Bucky wasn't taking notes.

 

"Right, we're not going far, about half an hour north of here is a little college town. Really quiet, nice and out of the way, and people keep to themselves except on campus. We'll be staying there, on the outskirts of the school, where there's temporary housing."

 

"Great, I've always wanted to go to college again," Sam jibed, elbowing Steve. "Hey, did you even go to college, either of you?"

 

"Not now, Sam. Go on, Natasha. What are we doing there? Who are we?"

 

Natasha swallowed a grin. "That's the fun part. There weren't many options, just know that. For what we need: for low profile, multi-person housing on a temp basis, and non-traditional job skill sets, there wasn't much. We couldn't just come into town and pick up work in some cubicle."

 

That earned a laugh. "Okay…"

 

"So, we're going to be firefighters."

 

" _That's_ your idea of low profile?"

 

She held her hands up. "Listen, first. Like I just said, it's a sleepy little college town. They've had a grand total of five fires in the past three years. The force, as it is, has the most calls on faulty carbon monoxide detectors and even still they're desperate for help. The chief's just one of three live-ins and the other two are his college-age son and nephew. They need more people to staff on-call hours so the boys can go to school part-time. We're exactly what they need, a full on-call force for the other half of the day."

 

"And what about the whole firehouse, bunking up when we're on call and shit?"

 

"That's the best part. The firehouse has an apartment building next door for housing its force. In the past, most of their squads were students looking for a way to avoid paying rent on top of tuition. We'll stay there most of the time, no need to go _into_ work, because we're right next door and the call-bell is wired into the apartment. It's the best way to live like civvies while maintaining a low profile."

 

Steve was nodding his head. She'd won him over. "And even when we're on call we can go about daily business inside the apartment?"

 

"Exactly. We can develop a kind of routine. And the firehouse has a gym in the basement, _with_ a boxing ring." Natasha saw Bucky turn his head from the corner of her eye.

 

"Seriously?" Steve was excited, too.

 

"Yes. The chief was a boxer in his day. You'd like him Steve, and he'll like you three, big burly beefcakes that you are. It's really rather ideal."

 

Sam found the whole situation amusing. "It's like a giant cliché… okay, so what was the other option?"

 

"Grad students."

 

Sam snorted. "Okay, yes. Good choice."

 

"Well done, Natasha. And as for the chief, he's accepted our applications in absentia?"

 

She nodded. "Like I said, he's desperate for help, and I'm a good salesperson. He didn't ask a single question and I doubt he will. Ever."

 

"And I know you said it was a small town, but is there any way they haven't seen the national news?"

 

Natasha waved dismissal at Steve's question. "No, they have, but I'm working on that. A holomask for you should be waiting when we get there. With his hair up, no one'll recognize Barnes, and, I'm sorry, Wilson, but you're a no-name, too. I'm changing my hair to match my new wig." She pulled out the curly black bob she'd worn that afternoon and quirked her brow. "What do you think?"

 

"Forgettable."

 

Steve and Sam chided Bucky for the comment but Natasha smiled. "That's what I was aiming for, thank you. The chief is giving us three days starting tomorrow to settle in and get used to things before he puts us on duty. We can use the time to get a routine started. Tomorrow I'll finish making our ID cards so remember to be photo ready in the morning." She handed around the yet unforged licenses.

 

"Uh… Dwayne?" Sam looked like she'd spat in his soup. "Is it because–"

 

"It was the only one with your physical description. And it's only in front of the civvies."

 

"Don't worry, Sam. Mine's Hal. The fifth! Poor guy's the fifth Hal Gilbert Polk." Steve chuckled warmly and then looked up to Bucky. "What about you, Buck?"

 

"Still James."

 

Natasha shrugged when they looked at her. "Common name. This one's James… Poole. And all of yours are veterans, or so it'll say in the database soon, when your pictures join the names."

 

"Mm. I'm like The Rock. Dwayne. Dwayne Foley, I can rock it. Yeah? Yeah?"

 

"Yeah, even Barnes got it, Wilson." Bucky nodded solemnly in the corner and Natasha continued. "I'm Kat. Remember that, Kathryn Palmer."  

 

"Okay. And, with the mask I'll have… brown hair and green eyes?"

 

"After I dye your hair too, yes. Sorry, Steve."

 

He shook his head. "No, not a problem. I was just making sure. And I'll only wear the mask when we go out of the apartment, right?"

 

"Correct. Then we'll just be _forgettable,_ regular people."

 

Bucky shifted behind them. "The arm?"

 

"Right, almost forgot. Here. For when you go out." She tossed him Barton's too-big leather jacket. "Otherwise, long sleeves. We'll get you a glove, too."

 

Bucky slipped the coat on without hesitation and leaned back, content. He didn't say another thing.

 

"Are we all satisfactorily briefed? Any other questions?"

 

Her question was answered with shaking heads.

 

"No? Then, let's get over there. We'll be moving in under darkness, but that's fine. Barnes, let's get your nest returned to its proper places."

 

Natasha and Bucky broke apart his pallet and soon Banner's bunker was fully restored to factory conditions, or as close to them as Bucky's recovery had allowed. Quickly and quietly they loaded all their packs onto shoulders until all their current belongings were being carried through the echoing bunker and up the stairs. Bucky hadn't made it to the stairwell yet and he was cautious about it. He followed nonetheless after Steve, but only after he seemed to sniff it. Outside, under the red and purple sky of dusk his face looked like a child's. He gazed upwards, still somehow filling Steve's footprints with his own, with his lips parted just a centimeter.

 

"Looks like it was a good sunset," Sam mentioned, noticing Buck's awe.

 

"I'd forgotten," he answered reverently and then sighed. "Where are the stars?"

 

"You can't see them this early anymore," Steve answered. "Something called light pollution. The cities are so bright now their light along with the sun's as it sets washes out the stars."

 

Buck didn't respond as he set his burdens in the back of the van. He did linger outside it as the rest of them loaded up, still wondering at the sky. It was a lovely sight, truth told, after so many days under ground, and the air tasted so fresh. It was a shame to climb back in another box, but a much more temporary one. The last light of the day caught Buck's left hand, exposed from the sleeve of his jacket as he turned to take in the entirety of the sky above. It flexed absently and then joined its twin to tuck the hair behind Buck's ears. He looked fortified by the sight.

 

"You forget how marvelous things are until you see them again." Steve was watching Buck with Sam, as was Nat. All of them took the moment to share in his pristine wonder but only Steve commented.

 

"The colors. How could I have forgotten the colors?" Buck's eyes were as good as drinking in the sight, nearly unblinking. They were also softer for it.

 

"The little things, the ones you forget to appreciate, they go first."

 

Sam flinched as Steve's hand fell with a thwump onto Buck's back, but nothing happened.

 

"There's more where this comes from," he added, sliding onto a bench. "Wait till you see a sunrise. Colors you've never imagined could exist and it almost moves like it's alive. You'll love it."

 

"And a full sunset," Nat chimed in. "A gentler pallet but gorgeous all the same. And then the stars." She pointed east at the far horizon where the sky was a rich blue-black, speckled with little flashes. "They're the loveliest, cool and docile. And constant."

 

She and Buck shared a sigh and the little group fell silent. Nat scrambled into the driver's seat with less grace than usual, probably to hide the awkwardness of sighing with Buck. Sam and Steve waited. It would have been pointlessly cruel to spoil Buck's first moment of appreciation for this world again.

 

"Fireworks," he said eventually.

 

"What's that?"

 

"The last time I saw the sky like this there were fireworks. Shitty little USO fireworks fighting with the end of an Italian sunset."

 

Beside Sam, Steve chuckled with his whole torso. "Yeah. I remember that evening. Weather went downhill after that."

 

Buck scoffed, "winter." He hid a shiver and, after tucking his hands into the pockets of his new leather jacket, stepped into the van to sit across from them.

 

Steve smiled weakly for Buck and then patted the roof. "We're all in Natasha."

 

Buck pulled the door closed and the van lurched forward. It was a short drive, full of stops and starts and completely silent. Something about the atmosphere after the door closed demanded to be left quiet. It may have been the memory of the last time they were in the van, or maybe a memorial for the time spent in the bunker, or perhaps because everyone was a little nervous about the move but unwilling to admit it. In any case, it was silent and hardly even a glance was exchanged. Nat's phone chirruped a few times but was left unanswered, whatever it was alerting her to, she drove with a singular focus.

 

Sam turned his new identification over and over in his hands. It was only temporary, but it made him anxious, acting like he was someone else. He'd spent enough time becoming who he was the whole idea of it seemed daunting. Then again, it was also a little exhilarating, like he had a new freedom. But he wasn't anyone different, really. He was going to be Sam Wilson with a different name. It was Buck who had it actually bad. Miserably, he would have to act a whole, different person amidst not hardly being a half a person. It was going to be fine, though. Sam had told Steve that and meant it. With the three of them putting their heads together, Buck was bound to turn out fine. Fine or incredibly fucked up. It was a toss-up, but there was no way in hell he'd ever tell Steve that.

 

A gentle metallic scrape told Sam that Buck was moving. Looking up, he found that he'd only set his hand down to support himself for a turn. Even with his eyes downcast it was clear Buck was sulking. It was not clear why. A quick glance told Sam that Steve had noticed and was as concerned as a mother hen but doing nothing, just covertly observing. Sam sighed. He should get used to it, sulkiness seemed to be a basic component of Buck's personality. He wondered if it had been from the beginning. That was something to ask Steve about later.

 

Meanwhile, as Sam noticed when he glanced to the front, Nat had put on her black wig. They must have been getting close. He checked his watch and ground his teeth through a few unpleasant bumps. Exactly thirty minutes. They had to be nearly there. Steve's shield had been packed away, too much of an iconic piece to carry out in the open, but he'd started thrumming his fingers against it through its duffle. The impacts made muted little hums that were almost soothing. Buck was watching like Sam had been. His face was lulled to slackness by the sound, the sulking evaporated and replaced by slow blinks and heavy eyelids.

 

Sam stifled a yawn and then sat up straighter. They van was decelerating but still moving. They were in a residential area. A college residential area, Sam could smell the pot smoke and bad decisions through the air vents. The brakes were silent as they rolled into a long driveway.

 

"Quick as we can, guys," Nat said and then disappeared from the front seat. She had a quick word with someone outside the van that Sam couldn't make out and then opened the rear doors. "It's clear. One load like before."

 

It was pleasantly cool in the night air, a smattering of pedestrian traffic giving a welcome soundtrack to their loading up. Sam had forgotten how nice ambient noise could be. Somewhere on the street someone was barbequing and it smelled exquisite. Somewhere else the steady thump-thump-thump of a bass beat revealed that a party, probably all underage, was in progress. Sam smiled, they were in the world again. Beside him, Buck was observing everything like Sam had been but with five times the intensity. His body looked like it was wound as tight as a guitar string. He'd probably hum like a tuning fork if anyone touched him.

 

Steve and Nat slung duffels and packs onto his unresponsive shoulders and distributed the rest of the bags among them and Sam. He didn't hum. A group of obviously drunk students drifted past in a tight huddle. One of them noticed them and waved, then another joined in and hooted. They were hallooing and catcalling and teasing all the way until they were out of sight. It bewildered Buck.

 

"Did they want something?" He asked after the girls couldn't be heard anymore.

 

Sam chuckled. "Our attention, man. Firefighters are sexy. Come on, inside."

 

Their place was on the third floor, up a flight of steps that Steve could barely fit through. Sam and Bucky had just as much trouble. After a few bitter comments about the place being built for hobbits they made it up the stairs and to the apartment, which was worth the tight climb. At first glance, it was a really nice place, big and clean and open, but Sam couldn't care less about all that. It was the kitchen he bee-lined for. It was wonderful, so much bigger than the one in Banner's bunker and with all the appliances in stainless steel. Oh, he would be making all kinds of good shit in this place.

 

Behind him Buck was wandering around aimlessly, apparently confounded by the amount of space. Steve and Natasha had dropped all the bags into the middle of the front room and were divvying them up according to their contents. Sam knew he should be helping, but this kitchen… He stopped caressing the six-range gas stove and stomped over.

 

"Okay, so there are three bedrooms, two baths. We'll all have to share bathroom space but two of us get our own rooms. Since Barnes refuses to be left alone, I assume he'll be okay sharing–"

 

"With me," Steve filled in without hesitation. "And you should have your own bathroom. Sam and Bucky and I can share, right?" He looked to Sam.

 

"Oh, yeah. No problem, nothing new."

 

"Thanks. Alright. You two can put up in the master, it's biggest, and Sam and I will take the two others. I have furniture coming in tomorrow but we'll have to rough it on the floor tonight."

 

"That's fine."

 

"Again, nothing new."

 

"Good. If that's all settled, I say we go ahead and bed down. I know it's early but we have a ton to do tomorrow and it'll start well before dawn."

 

Sam was already on his feet. "No, that sounds fantastic. Sleep. Now."

 

"I agree. Bucky, ready to bunk up?" Steve stood as well and followed Sam towards the back with Buck in his trail.

 

No one need telling twice to go to sleep. Sam was ecstatic to be by himself in a room devoted solely to him. Finally, some privacy. Natasha was dead on her feet. She hardly felt the floor before she fell asleep. In the last room Steve lay on his shield, still wrapped in canvas and used it as a pillow. Bucky huddled under the leather jacket Natasha had given him in the corner closest to Steve. He hadn't argued or fought or resisted at any point in their move. Like Steve, it seemed likely he was relieved to be here. And seeing him gaze at the sky had made Steve feel light again. This was the right decision. With that last thought, he drifted off to sleep, easier than imagined.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is getting ridiculously long. I'd apologize, but... I'm not really sorry. I guess, buckle in everyone. You've got a ride ahead of you.  
> Also, I want to thank you for reading, and send out a special bit of thanks to those who left kudos and their kind comments. Those are always lovely!  
> 


	7. SECURITY and STABILITY pt. 2

Steve sat up from a dead sleep unknowable hours later, whipping around the room in a lather. He had no idea what had woken him. When he looked, he couldn't he find any cause, but there was a sense of urgency surging through him. It made his heart sit in his throat, beating furiously behind his voice box. Two, calmer surveys of the room told Steve he had no reason to be so worked up. It must have been a dream that whisked away as soon as its terror hit. But still he sat there and looked, listened, waited.

 

Then, he heard it.

 

It was no more than a whimper, barely voiced but fully intelligible. His name. Bucky was still, paralyzed by whatever dream was tormenting him, but he still managed to call for him. Even as he stood Steve knew he would find Bucky fully asleep beneath that jacket. His voice had too much emotion to it, was too sincere in its pitiful appeal. He checked nonetheless. Sure enough, his face was knitted in pain and teeth grinding, but Bucky's eyes were closed. He was sleeping and dreaming, dreaming about something in the past, the far past.

 

His name split the silence of the room three more times before sleep finally found him again. It was an aggrieved choice he faced. Either he woke Bucky and put him through the shame and embarrassment of why he'd woken him, all after fighting off whatever reaction that would spur, or he could let Bucky's mind torture him some more. He chose the lesser of two evils, or so he thought. At least by letting Bucky fight his own demons he spared him some public ones. One thing Bucky didn't need was more shame-driven resentment, not that Steve knew that would be the result, but he didn't want to risk it. Steve didn't want it directed towards him, selfish as that was.

 

It felt like he'd only just closed his eyes when he was awoken again, this time by something tangible. Natasha's toe digging into his ribs. It was still well dark outside the window but a thin light seeped through the cracks around the door. Even in that half-light he could see her eyes shining. Sitting up, he realized she was dressed like a butcher. A sense of dread filled him immediately.

 

"What happened?" He whispered with more melodrama than he'd intended.

 

Natasha grinned her feline smirk. "Nothing, yet. We're dying hair. Now. Come on."

 

Creeping through the cavernous front room, Steve felt his joints loosen. As groggy as he'd been just seconds before, he felt well rested. The clock on the oven read 4:02.

 

"Natasha, it's four in the morning. Isn't there a more… daytime time to do this?"

 

She gently closed the bathroom door before answering. "Not if we want to get in a pre-dawn run this morning."

 

He felt like a little kid again. "Really?"

 

"Yes. You all have been caged up too long. You need to range, I know." With a flick of a switch the world came glaring into his sight. Natasha was pointing to the tub. "But we have to get this done quickly so it can set. Sit. Boxers only. I don't want to stain anything. We only have so many clothes here."

 

Steve stripped as told and sat awkwardly in the bathtub, knees folded and up by his shoulders. Natasha brought the shower head to his level, tested the water and then, incredibly, wet only his hair.

 

"Does…rich medium caramel brown sound like an acceptable color to you?" She held up a box which pictured hair of exactly the color Steve would have expected 'rich medium caramel brown' to be.

 

"Sure," he shrugged. He'd always been blonde but it wasn't something he was attached to. "You could shave it off for all I care."

 

"No. That wouldn't do. Nick would insist you were trespassing on his territory. He's the bald authoritative man. You're the haired authoritative man and never the twain shall meet." She laughed quietly, a deep, throaty chuckle, and shook her head at Steve's incredulity. "No, but seriously, you'd look ridiculous. Brunette will do. Sit forward and hold still."

 

The dye was cold and it was messy. Natasha combed it through his hair and came away with hands stained with chocolaty blood. A few times it dribbled down his neck and left a ribbon of rich medium caramel brown in its wake. Even after Natasha would wipe it away the skin remained a darker tone. Once he was all set and waiting his assigned ten minutes, Natasha motioned for him to scoot to the front of the tub and stepped in, apron and gloves and all.

 

"Shower head, please." She deftly wet her own hair and, after lobbing a surprising amount of it off to just above her shoulders, worked an ink black dye into it. "I know, this is weird. Two grown persons sitting partially clothed in a bathtub, but it's easier this way. You can make sure I get it all." Turning her head, she looked back with a question on her brow.

 

"All black as black can get," he responded and she nodded.

 

"Now we wait."

 

"Why'd you choose black?" He wondered aloud after a few minutes of sitting silently.

 

"It was the only wig I could find. Not very exciting, right?"

 

He shrugged. "It'll be very different."

 

"As will rich medium caramel brown for you. This way during the run this morning you can go without the holomask. In the low light no one's going to even suspect you're anything other than another brawny brunette. You and Bucky could be brothers." She snickered at that. "Clean cut and grunge respectively."

 

"Grunge?" He asked, resisting the urge to scratch the itch behind his ear where the dye was starting to irritate his skin.

 

"Yeah… late eighties, nineties. Nirvana et al. No? Not there yet."

 

"I'm still working through the seventies. A lot happened then."

 

Natasha chuckled again. "Well, when you do, you'll understand immediately. The biker glove really topped it off." She paused, reaching over to wipe at his hair line. "How do you like the cover? How do Barnes and Wilson like the cover, you think?"

 

"It's great, Natasha, really. I was doubtful at first, like Sam, but once you think about it, it's perfect. And this apartment is beautiful. Sam was all in a tizzy over the kitchen and Bucky actually seemed relaxed. You know, he went to sleep without scoping the place out, so I think he feels safe, maybe even likes it here."

 

"Good," she sighed and nodded. "I thought so, but I just wanted to check. And how are you? Really. How are _you_ , Steve?"

 

He took a deep breath and thought about his response. "Well… after all the things the past few days and all the ways I've felt… I think, even though nothing's actually fixed, I really just feel relief right now. I mean, no doubt, there're still things to worry about, but I'm not constantly worried. That ulcer I was forming in my stomach cleared up." He chuckled weakly with Natasha. "I'm sure things will still find a way to go wrong, but for now things don't feel so dark and dire."

 

"Your hope is back."

 

"My hope's back, yes. It helps that yesterday was leaps and bounds an improvement. Wasn't it?"

 

"Oh, absolutely. When I came in it was like a different person. I even think h–" Natasha jerked into a strike pose as the door slammed open. "Oh, it's you."

 

Yes, it was him. Bucky, hair a laughable tumbleweed, yesterday's clothing crumpled and wrinkled on his frame, stood looking like a gobsmacked hobo in the door way. He was clearly having a hard time processing what he found in front of him.

 

"What are you doing?"

 

"Dyeing hair. What are you doing?" Natasha answered brightly.

 

It was almost comical, seeing all of that intensity of Bucky's focused on their absurd little scene. It was sniper scoping for paper basketball. "Why… like that?"

 

"To keep from staining things. Are you okay?"

 

He was still working through the spectacle but he answered easily enough. "I am. Now. You weren't there when I woke up."

 

"Sorry, Buck. We had to get this done so we could all go for a run around dawn."

 

His expression finally lightened some. "A run."

 

"Yeah, all together, see the new town, the sunset, breathe fresh air, work out some of the cabin fever," Natasha explained. "You interested?"

 

Bucky nodded, a little harder than usual. "Like basic."

 

"Yeah, like training camp," Steve smiled. "It'll feel good. Speaking of, this doesn't. Can we rinse this?"

 

"Oh! Yes. Lean forward." Natasha clambered around him immediately and powered up the water. Soon rich medium caramel brown rivulets streamed past his hands and through Natasha's feet. It took longer to rinse it out than work it in, but not too long. When she shut off the water, Bucky was still standing in the doorway watching, nonplussed. "There. Dry off and get dressed. Both of you, please. Long sleeves, Barnes, sorry. Oh, and there's a nude glove for your left hand waiting on the kitchen counter."

 

Steve stepped from the tub as Natasha spoke, drying off quickly. A glance in the mirror showed him he was now assuredly brown-haired. He didn't mind it. Toweled off he turned to Bucky. "Ready to get ready?"

 

He looked like Steve had stepped in something disgusting.

 

"What?"

 

"I don't like it," he replied with deadpan bluntness and set Natasha to laughing breathlessly.

 

Steve could only sigh. Patting Bucky on the arm he led him back to their room. "You'll get used to it."

 

"I won't and you shouldn't either."  
 

Steve thought he understood the petulance behind Bucky's response. "It's still me, promise. My hair color doesn’t change anything the same as your hair length doesn't. Alright?"

 

Bucky sniffed his derision but let it go. Following Steve out of the bathroom, however, he kept glancing over at his hair with distaste. That made Natasha laugh even more. She kept laughing, in fact, even once they were out of sight and she was left to deal with her hair alone. It felt good, laughter. She didn't get a chance to remember that often enough.

 

She wiped her eyes and sighed, "he looked like Steve was wearing a dead baby for a hat. Whew." By the time her sides were starting to ache from suppressed cackles and she was opening crying, the dye was fully set. She rinsed it out carefully and climbed from the bathtub to strip off her cosmonaut suit. Looking in the mirror she evened out her spontaneous bob and then rinsed the dye from her eyebrows. It was a jarring difference, that was for sure. Something about it Natasha found unsettling for a split second, but easily pushed it away. She'd been many people in many places for many different reasons. This was just one more.

 

Sam was awake when she toed open his bedroom, on his phone. "This place has free wifi. D'you know that?"

 

"Yeah, a few utilities are included. Wifi, water, and trash. Have you seen Rogers and Barnes yet?"

 

"Nope. I've been enjoying _not_ seeing their gloomy mugs."

 

Natasha chuckled to herself. His reaction was going to be great. "Well, you may change your mind when you see them. Uh, are you interested in a run? I thought we'd go as a group."

 

Sam scoffed, "those two'll smoke us, but yeah. It'll be good to get a work out in. I feel like a caged animal."

 

"We all do. T-minus fifteen minutes. You can make that?"

 

"Yup." He was already rifling through his duffels so Natasha left him to it to go check on Gloom and Doom.   

 

They were in various states of undress, but neither shy about it. Bucky stared daggers at her hair as well when Steve opened the door.

 

"He doesn't like change," Steve concluded as Natasha cleared her throat to keep from laughing.

 

"I can see that."

 

"I think it looks nice."

 

"Thanks, Steve, but I know it looks pretty severe. You two'll be ready in ten minutes or so?"

 

They both nodded so Natasha retreated to her own room to get dressed. As mild as it was outside this time of year, she dressed to cover. There was no way she was going anywhere without a small arsenal hidden among her person. Even if she had a large arsenal essentially in the two men fighting to figure out modern exercise apparel in the next room, she was going to be prepared. She wouldn't be with them the whole run. Not only would they outpace her, but her aim wasn't cardio training. Natasha intended on scoping the town with this run. Slow and steady would be her pace, observant in place of exertive.

 

Chopped so short, he hair was just barely held off her neck by a hair tie. She scoffed to herself, Barnes' hair was now longer than hers nearly. It had begun to curl as it dried and Natasha let it, the more to look distinctive from her last appearance. Three guns, four knives and her widow bites hidden on her person, the last's volts cleverly under sweat bands, Natasha finally tied on her shoes. She winced as she looked in the mirror. If anything, she looked like an edgy soccer mom in her black and neon spandex and a ball cap. She shrugged. It would have to do.

 

When she stepped into the common area, again she had to stifle laughter. Sam was in the process of coaxing a headband on Bucky. Steve stood by looking morally conflicted. Besides that, the three of them looked like a small cluster of professional athletes ready for conditioning. The military t-shirts only added to the ensemble. Clint had been right to grab those. Even Bucky, headband aside, looked comfortable and normal, his arm hidden under sleeve and glove.

 

"No," he finally growled as Sam pushed the band over his forehead.

 

"But, come on, it'll keep the rest of it off your face. And… it looks _so_ good."

 

"Sam…" Steve warned, but kept still, his arms crossed.

 

"No." The headband snapped as Bucky removed it and Sam groaned theatrically.

 

"Are you three ready?" All eyes turned on her.

 

"Damn, that is a lot of spandex. Did you buy out an outlet mall. You know it's warm out there right?" Sam spoke like he'd already had his coffee that morning, broken headband quickly forgotten.

 

"She's hiding weapons, obviously." When Sam stared at Bucky quizzically, Bucky accurately pointed to where each was discreetly placed, or at least Natasha had thought them discreet. "Knives there, there, there, and there. Guns there, there, there. Some kind of pulse shock on her wrists. Are we under threat here?"

 

"No," Natasha shook her head, although they were always under threat to her mind. "This place is just a civilian zone."

 

"Natasha likes to be prepared in case."

 

Bucky glanced at Steve without looking at his hair. "I can appreciate that."

 

"Good. If all that's settled, let's get out there. Sunrise in thirty minutes." Natasha thought she saw a flash of gratitude on Bucky's face, but she didn't stick around to find out. Steve caught her as they hunched down the stairs.

 

"What are the weapons really for, Natasha?"

 

"Like you said, just in case. I, unfortunately, can never be absolutely sure we weren't tracked here. I have to cover my friends' backs." She met Steve's eye for a brief moment and then hopped down the rest of the stairs into the dewy morning air.

 

Potential sentimental moment bypassed, Natasha breathed in the air. It smelled like fresh rain, grass and damp pine needles. It smelled free. The sun wasn't rising just yet but a refraction of its light caught the clouds in the east and made the horizon look aflame. It was beautiful, but reminded her of other things so she turned away. Stars were still visible above and to the west, their cool light made her mind quiet. It was, admittedly, a little warmer than she was used to, but a little sweat never hurt anyone and the heat would make everything smell richer.

 

Behind her Sam was stretching, commenting on Steve's proposed jogging path. Bucky was gazing at the heavens. Without even putting herself in his shoes she understood. There had been nights when she laid beneath the stars and merely gazed through the whole of them, without a wink of sleep, and nothing had made her feel more whole and sound. There was nothing in the world to make you feel free like the wide sky open above you. She couldn't help but think back to those penguins, beaks in the air. 

 

For a moment she felt like hugging him again, maybe for her anguish over those penguins, maybe for the wonder on his face, maybe for the memories. She didn't. Of course she didn't. But she added that to her tally of moments that assured her she wasn't ruined deep inside. As she continued to watch him, Natasha noticed his gloved left hand flexing. Something was making him antsy, she'd have wagered anything on it. Then she saw it, his count. There was more to his gazing on high than wonder, he was also counting access routes. _Or escape routes_ , her mind whispered back.

 

"Barnes," she called out without thinking about maintaining their covers. "What is it?" She trusted it was access routes. There were six. She'd counted them, too.

 

"This place is vulnerable," he answered quietly, having dropped his chin and only glancing at her under his brow. "Too many approaches with good cover."

 

"We're not at war anymore." Steve had stopped his chatting with Sam abruptly, laid a hand on Bucky's back as if to keep him rooted. "Snipers and hidey holes aren't a concern here."

 

_Yet_ , the pessimistic, although pragmatic and sadly usually correct part of Natasha's mind said. _If anyone makes us out in the open those wonderful bay windows may become just the vulnerability Bucky fears, and those trees across the way a spot for ambush. He's right. We're exposed to the front and cornered to the rear. Could get trapped here like rats. I saw that, why didn't I–_ With a shake of her head Natasha called down that voice. She'd chosen it because she trusted in her stealth skills first. If they kept up the façade there was no reason for worry. They needed to move now before the early work force took notice of them loitering out here.

 

"They're not, you're right Steve. All the same, the less attention we attract to ourselves the better, so let's get our rather _attractive_ selves moving. In motion, people get nothing but a passing glance, standing still allows for and incites closer inspection."

 

Military men all, they needed no other spurring and their group was mobile immediately. As expected, Steve and Bucky outpaced her in their first few strides and quickly did Sam as well. That was all well and good for Natasha. She hung back and watched their silhouettes recede until they were just bobbing angles. She was out to recon anyways. Sam, however, bless him, tried and tried to at least keep within sight of them. He was well ahead of Natasha for several miles, though she could always see him and by seeing him knew where Steve and Bucky were heading.

 

The town was a sleepy one indeed. Hardly a living soul was awake to see them on their run, much less figure out who they were. Those who were awake were unassuming and friendly. She had figured a college town would be a safe atmosphere for them, this proved it. In town there were enough amenities to be helpful but not too many to make it a bustling place, also positive. She took note of a grocer's and a few supplies marts, home and office, all useful. They had a laundry closet in the apartment, so the laundromat she spotted wasn't of immediate use, but there was no harm in knowing where another was.

 

On another lucky note, the official government buildings were limited to just one, a post office. The civic police force was shared with a larger neighboring town and housed there, the campus police supplementing. That was a private force, easier to negotiate with and keep those negotiations unheard. There was a private emergency center as well, though between the four of them Natasha doubted any professional medicine would be required; two of them were indestructible and the other two resourceful and clever. There was a veterinary clinic and a few restaurants besides that but the mercantile portion of the area was far outweighed by the residential. Three quarters of her jog so far had been made up of tree lined streets of brick houses and walkups.

 

All in all, it was an incredible aesthetic there. The campus matched. For being as small and overgrown with woody trees and vines as it was, the college was remarkably beautiful. Natasha was admiring one of its stately chapels at a slow jog when the sun finally broke. It caught just between two panels of stained glass and left her a myriad of colors. It was impossible not to smile. She stopped, holding her hands in front of her, watching the lights dance red and purple and green over her skin, and smiled even wider. What a lovely thing to happen. It occurred to her that Bucky would have loved it. Just then, as if reading her thoughts, she heard footfalls behind her, one set slowing.

 

The look on his face was indescribable and Natasha met it with a smile as she turned. Steve remained, jogging in place, beside Natasha as he smiled back at his friend as well.

 

"You lapped me," she observed uselessly.

 

"Sun wasn't up yet. Wanted Buck to see it. Turned out really well, don't you think? Hey, you got the red in your hair back." Steve grinned at her too, and then jogged back to Bucky, who by this point was stationary and gawking, now at the windows of the church. He looked at Natasha oddly as they passed, running again, but soon turned his attention back to the sun's light shows.

 

"I'm standing in a rainbow," Natasha chuckled to herself and then picked back up again, cursing how her muscles had stiffened while she'd stood still.

 

A mile or so ahead she found Sam, doubled over with his hands on his knees and soaked in sweat. He looked at her and shook his head.

 

"Not only could I not keep up with 'em, the bastards just lapped me. Not even sweating really. And you know what they said? They asked if I needed a medic. Again!" He did sound like he was about to die from over-exertion. "I can't keep up… and now, here you are."

 

"Obviously we can't keep up, Wilson, they're literally super men. There's a reason I didn't even try." She jogged past him, slow but steady and with a smile.

 

"Yeah, go on. Leave me here. I'll be fine."

 

Natasha was pretty sure she heard him retch a few seconds later, but she did him the courtesy of not turning to check. It was very near the circuit. He could easily walk back the quarter mile to the firehouse without help and with his dignity, so she left him to that. Steve and Bucky were waiting on the roof of the porch of the apartment entrance when she got back. Somehow they'd scrambled up there, or probably jumped. It didn't matter. She was glad they had. They were less conspicuous up there and since they had to wait for her, as she had the key, it'd been a good call.

 

"Enjoying the view?" She called up quietly, bent over to untie the key from her laces.

 

"Yes."

 

"It's really spectacular, actually."

 

"Good," she stepped back a few paces so she could see them properly. Steve had his hands behind his head, soaking up the sunrise like he was a bather on a beach. Bucky had his arms crossed but his face wasn't as guarded. "And no one saw you flat foot jump up there, did they?"

 

"No."

 

"We climbed… sort of."

 

"Mm-hmm. As long as no one saw. You know that explaining that kind of physical agility is going to be harder than 'they're veterans.' Remember that, if people see you running too."

 

Steve's face fell a little. "Yes, of course. When we're running."

 

"Did someone see you?"

 

"Yes." Bucky didn't tear his eyes away from the east to answer. "Old man. Glasses, books in hand. Easily eliminated. I remember his face."

 

"Bucky! We're not killing him because he saw us running."

  
Bucky's flesh shoulder shrugged. "It would be most efficient to re-secure our cover."

 

Natasha pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. "He's not wrong. But you're not wrong either, Steve," she added when she heard his righteous gasp.

 

"I talked to him," Steve admitted. "Told him we were fresh out of the service. Anything looks fast to an older man who can't hardly move as it is, I think. We should be fine."

 

"Should be," Natasha echoed. "Just maybe don't faster-than-a-speeding-bullet it anymore. Someone's bound to notice that."

 

Sam jogged up just then, a fresh sheen of sweat over his face. "You bastards." He was panting. "On the roof like it was fourth of July watching fireworks. Not like they'd just run a marathon in forty minutes. Bastards," he repeated breathlessly. "Can we go inside, please. I need water and an ice bath and possibly a bucket. I can't say for sure."

 

* * *

 

Inside, the sunrise still warm on his face, Steve felt good. That run was precisely what he needed, and Bucky too. Both of them were sitting in the big front windows, watching the sun take its gentle arching course up into the sky, waiting for towels to become available for the shower. There were only three for some reason and two had been dirtied with hair dyeing and the third was waiting for Natasha in her bathroom. It was okay, they could wait. Besides, Sam needed the first one to become available more than they did. He'd practically drowned in his own sweat and, even half an apartment away, was the clear candidate for first turn in the shower.

 

At that moment, he was laying, on his back, on the floor in front of the laundry closet, waiting for the towels to finish drying. Steve was pretty sure he was asleep. His eyes were closed and he wasn't complaining. He'd given himself heat exhaustion or something trying to keep up with them and had been blaming Steve and Bucky the whole time. The fact that he'd stopped either meant he had forgotten his embarrassment or was asleep. As he was a little on the proud side, Steve knew he was asleep.

 

But that run. It'd been perfect. The town was wonderfully quiet, with enough quaint features to almost feel like it was timeless. Steve had found the individual mailboxes especially charming. It wasn't bustling or booming or cutting edge. It just was. A coffee shop or two reminded him that he was, in fact, in the twenty-first century, but most of the other commercial buildings were non-descript little businesses with individual personality. There was an old musty-looking bookstore that he wanted to visit as soon as possible. It actually looked older than him.

 

And the feel of it, being outside with a breeze and the sounds of life, that'd been perfect too. Human life wasn't all there was or all the town catered to. There were squirrel hutches and bird baths, dogs in yards. There was a pretty sizeable park too. No Central Park but better, quiet and teeming with winged and clawed visitors that Steve looked forward to sitting, watching, and sketching at some point. There was more besides that for drawing: beautiful old architecture, trees that were gnarled and huge, and fountains with coins at their bottoms. And that church with the stained glass. Steve still believed in some things, faith he'd kept when most the world had lost it, or lost sight of what it really meant. That moment, when he and Bucky had happened upon Natasha, had only affirmed that.

 

It couldn't have been better timed. They'd seen her from a ways off and were racing to pass her. But then, she had crossed into the path of the windows and almost instantaneously the sun had breached the horizon and she had been on fire. The light had flooded her so immediately and so brightly that for a brief second Steve really had thought she had caught on fire. Then his eyes had adjusted and she'd been all glimmer and colors and it was all Steve could do not to gasp. It was one of those small moments that felt miraculous, not for being impossible but for being so fully pure. If there wasn't something of God in moments like that, then he didn't know where else was left to look.

 

Bucky had seemed affected by it too, even if not on the same register as Steve. He had gasped, quietly, but had covered it. Even past Natasha and her dancing colors he'd acted a little different, somehow turned even more inwards. By all means, he'd continued to stare all around him, marveling in his solemn way, but he hadn't showed it so much on his face. Steve figured he was thinking. Up on the roof watching the sky spread with just as many colors as Natasha's epiphany, he'd finally said something. "You draw, with pencil," he'd said, "black and white and grey. But, with all these colors in the world you should include them." When Steve had mentioned how he used to like watercolors too, Bucky had turned to him and nodded. His wall had melted some then and he'd talked quietly with Steve about all the things they'd seen that morning. They were nothing particularly important or significant, but the act was. It showed a degree of comfort to talk about nothing with their ease. It showed even more when conversation ebbed and they fell silent and neither squirmed.

 

That same relaxed silence was upon them now. Bucky was holding an empty glass, all the water drained from it quickly, but he was too invested in the sunrise to get up and refill it. His jaw was hard and mouth pinch, like was becoming his resting habit, but his eyes were mellow and his brow was as smooth as it had been in peaceful sleep. Even his left shoulder seemed to have unwound some.  
 

At this point, the painting on the horizon had become dominated with yellows and oranges. The sunrise was almost over and had lost Steve as an audience. All the same, he wasn't going to get up and miss Bucky's closest thing to bliss. So, he sat there and watched the dawn on his friend's face. That was until Bucky caught him. He met Steve's eye and shook his head.

 

"Stop staring. I feel like a zoo animal."

 

And so, Steve had taken Buck's glass and volunteered to fill it up again, and then to check on Sam. Sam was as limp as a drowned fish. He didn't move, not even when Steve toed his ribs. All he did was grunt.

 

"Good. You're alive," Steve chuckled. "I was worried there I'd killed you inadvertently. Competitiveness isn't a virtue, Sam."

 

"Kindly fuck off, sir. Your smug 'on your left' is what did me in. You could have had the courtesy to pass me without gloating."

 

Steve opened the laundry closet. "You'll be shower-bound in less than five minutes. Think you can make it?"

 

" _Think you can make it?_ Nm, nm, nm. Yes. I can make it."

 

Steve laughed and then headed back to the kitchen.

 

Natasha had left her agenda on the counter and he'd been meaning to look it over anyways. She surely did have quite the day planned. The whole of it covered three notepad pages front and back and, looking at it more closely, Steve saw that after six am there was hardly a five minute span without something filling it. On a high note, hardly any of it required Steve to put that holomask on, which was good. He felt trapped in it. And Bucky wouldn't like it, especially after his reaction to the hair. He returned the pad to its place and looked over at Bucky, chewing his lips. Things had gone smoothly with him so far, but there was a lot on the docket today and most of it new. Steve worried whether he was ready for some of it.

 

"Fretting?" Natasha asked at his elbow. She was scary quiet sometimes.

 

"No," he said but nodded 'yes.' Natasha seemed to take his meaning and glanced at Bucky.

 

"Good start to a good day," she responded, laying her hands to either side of the notepad and nodding her head as if saying it could make it so. "Towel's in the washer, by the way. And, Wilson, that load in the dryer is finished. Wilson?"

 

Sam was definitely asleep now. When Steve concentrated he could hear the little 'puff' at the end of each slow breath drawn. Natasha half-smiled and then walked over to toe him awake.

 

"You can shower now."

 

"Right. I knew that." Sam sat up slowly, grimacing all the while. "My whole body hurts right now. Seriously, I hate both of you." He retrieved his towel and then slunk into the shared bathroom.

 

"One of you can use mine," Natasha offered, but Bucky simply shook his head and Steve followed suit.

 

"Don't want to compete for hot water," he explained without really explaining. He actually didn't want to leave Bucky alone with her. That seemed like an accident waiting to happen.

 

"That's fine. The furniture will be here soon and I'm sure the delivery guys could use any help they can get. You don't…" she sniffed at him. "No, you don't smell so that won't be a problem. Barnes–" she paused when Bucky lifted his hand, glove still in place, without looking away from the window. "You've got it already. Okay. Great."

 

Green eyes found Steve's and then flitted towards the back of the apartment. He followed obligingly. "Is he stable?"

 

"Oh, yes. Absolutely. He just likes looking at it. I think it lets him forget."

 

Natasha held his eye for a beat before looking back towards Bucky. "Or remember. Or both. Let's keep that in mind." She reached for the delicate chain around her throat, almost subconsciously it seemed, but then dropped her hand before touching it. "That means he has two."

 

Still wondering over the chain, Steve almost missed the meaning of Natasha's last words. He only caught them, along with the quiet smile that followed, at the last second, right as she was turning back. _He has two… two what?_  If that pendant was what Steve thought it'd been, Natasha's words meant only one thing.  _Two things to rely on._  Steve hoped he didn't fail him, but if he did there was very little chance the sun and stars would and that was reassuring.

 

"I'll pick up food and supplies after the furniture." Natasha was already back in the kitchen, staring into an empty refrigerator. "Maybe bring Wilson with me, he's good with food. For now, though, no breakfast. Sorry."

 

Steve shrugged. "I think we can make it a few hours."

 

"Yes, but I sure would have appreciated a cup of coffee…" Natasha seemed to think wistfully on that, then shut the refrigerator. "Oh, well. Tomorrow. Speaking of, we should draw up a list."

 

Cued again, Steve joined her at the counter to suggest items for the shopping list. Bucky stayed beside the window as if planted there. They shared a look but he and Natasha ended up leaving him be. He'd have plenty of chances to flex his decision-making muscles throughout the day. A few minutes of suggestions later, Natasha looked at the clocked and pressed her lips together.

 

"What is it?"

 

She shook her head. "They're late." Sure enough the clock read five minutes past.

 

"They'll be here. The whole world doesn't run with the precision we're used to, remember."

 

"I know. It's still frustrating." She blew a dark strand of hair from her eyes and then hopped backwards to sit on the counter. "If they don't get here soon, though, I'm going to release you two to shower."

 

"They'll be here," Steve repeated uselessly, to fill the silence he was suddenly uncomfortable with. Something was there, hanging, and he just couldn't put his finger on it.

 

They shuffled listlessly around the kitchen for another five minutes, Natasha sighing as each ticked away and adding a few odds and ends to their list. Steve watched his friends and tried to work out what was eating at him. After thinking back all the way to Natasha coming out, he figured it out.

 

"That's it," Natasha announced in a huff. "You guys can go do whatever. They've lost their right to help." She sounded exasperated but her face was another story. She was staring, expression still but alert, eyes flashing to Bucky and back at Steve. He'd been too quiet, too still for too long. She suspected something was wrong as well.

 

His whole demeanor that morning should have been a red flag. He'd stopped watching them, like had been his habit. Either he was sinking into some dark corner and had stopped caring or he no longer considered any of them a threat, which could be an excellent sign or disastrous. Steve flopped down beside him again, trying to act like nothing was wrong.

 

"You okay?"

 

Bucky must have seen the question behind that one on Steve's face nonetheless. He nodded and then turned back to the window. "You know what this makes me think of?" He asked, waited until Steve shook his head. "Nothing. It reminds me of nothing. It just is. Big. Vibrant. And completely indifferent to me." He still spoke slowly and deliberately, like thoughts were dangerous things to voice, but there was some variation in tone, a little emotion in certain syllables. "I like that. I like that the sun can still make the sky look like that even when everything else is shit. No matter what happens, the sun will still rise and set and the sky will still light up. I find that reassuring."

 

He studied Steve as that comment set it in, face like a brick wall. If it was still on the surface, quite a lot was happening below, because he continued when Steve didn't respond, answering another unasked question. "I heard you speaking with Natasha." Steve held his breath, waiting for Buck to continue, to react. "She was right." Something still made him avert his eyes as he finished speaking, but for a second Bucky was talking to Steve like he was whole and Steve was small. Or maybe just like he was his friend once again.

 

It was hard to tell, he soured over so quickly afterwards. "Shower," came the grunt in explanation as he retreated from the window sill to the rear of the apartment.

 

 


	8. SECURITY and STABILITY Pt. 3

The buzzer rang not a second after the bathroom door shut. Steve was heading that direction before Natasha could ask it of him, having watched their little heart to heart from atop the kitchen counter.

 

"I'll get him, don't worry." For all her threats, Steve knew Natasha would still want their help unloading. It would guarantee efficiency.

 

"Rogers!" Steve caught the delicate mask effortlessly. It was putting it on that looked like the ordeal. Natasha couldn't blame him. She'd sweated inside one of those things before. He sidled back out to her, new face in place and Bucky looking disgruntled, as she was buzzing in the delivery guys.

 

It was all apologies and shitty little knowing smiles once they got inside with the first load of disassembled bed frames. Natasha had no patience for them or their eyes, but she had a part to play, as much as everyone else and so couldn't smash in their insolent faces. Apparently, though, she was not quite on point with that. Steve picked up on her irritation and its source nearly right away and suggested they all go back out and bring up another load. One look at Steve and Bucky and the delivery guys were behind that idea, either because they'd appreciate the help or because they didn't want to be pummeled into dust. Natasha settled for putting together bed frames. Her preference would have been to supervise but her cover wasn't that kind of person, she followed more than she led and it would look bad, one of the delivery guys coming back with a broken shoulder.

 

Wilson found her sitting on the floor of his room, supplies and legs splayed out in front of her in perfect order. She already had half the frame put together. "Man, you are just a jack of all trades, aren't you?" He stood behind her to get dressed, not seeming to mind her invasion of his privacy.

 

Natasha slid a washer into place and shrugged. "You learn to do things or you don't. Learning always gave me the best chance, so… I guess so. Would you give me a hand? I want to get some feet on this thing."

 

Wilson obligingly helped her finish his bed frame as well as Steve's and Bucky's without much chatter. They were working on hers when he spoke up again. "So, why are you back here putting these things together instead of out there making sure their dumb asses don't do anything stupid? I mean, isn't that what you'd prefer?"

 

"No, they're completely competent… I trust Steve, at least." Natasha smiled in spite of herself, though. It was partially true, she did prefer to be involved in whatever she could be. "I also don't trust myself today."

 

"Problem with the delivery guys?"

 

"Nothing I can't handle… which _is_ the problem. So, I'm back here… being _retiring_." Even the word tasted bitter.

 

Wilson scoffed. "They don't even know what kind of shit they're getting themselves into. It's almost funny… but yeah, you're _super_ retiring back here putting together furniture faster than an Ikea assembly line. And better. Have you ever tried putting together Ikea shit? It's like fourth circle of hell worthy."

 

Natasha laughed and stood to start measuring spots for the headboard's mounting brackets. By the time that was finished she'd heard the front door open and close ten times. The furniture was bound to be all there.

 

"And… now we just need mattresses." Wilson was right, four beds were assembled, waiting for four mattresses and box springs.

 

Natasha thanked him for his help and they wandered out to see what had been brought up. It wasn't as much as Natasha would have expected by that point with four grown men. Steve appeared, mask slightly askew, as she was taking inventory of things.

 

"I don't like them," he announced firmly, shifting the box springs he was carrying to the other shoulder.

 

Bucky followed him inside with a scowl, also carrying box springs. "They're scum."

 

"Scum? Buck, we've got to get you caught up on insults."

 

He narrowed his eyes at Wilson but didn't respond. Natasha waved them to the back, relieved that her raised hackles weren't unfounded but even more displeased with the situation. "Why don't you take those back and put them on the beds. We put the frames together already. Wilson, wait here in case they come in will you?" Natasha followed Steve and Bucky back after a nod from Wilson. "What's been taking so long? I figured with your help this would be done in half time."

 

"The stairs," Bucky grumbled.

 

"They are so small and the angles so sharp that it takes a ton of time to get things up them without ripping them apart." Steve took off his mask and wiped his face. "The couch they're having to hoist up the front of the building, so Bucky and I are carrying everything else up for them."

 

"The couch'll fit."

 

Steve winced at Bucky's comment but shrugged like in submission. "We're doing what we can."

 

"You're essentially doing their job." Natasha rolled her neck and cleared her mind. This was irritating, sure, but it was minor. They'd be gone soon and she and the guys would have furniture.

 

"The hoist has taken almost the whole time for them to put together. I don't think they know what they're doing."

 

"They know exactly," Bucky corrected. "They're scum." The look on his face was worrying for Natasha. There was more there than disgust.

 

"They're pretty shady I'll admit that, but they haven't done anything overtly… _wrong_." Steve was running the inside of the holomask on his shirt. It left a big, dark smudge. "But I don't like them. Where did you find these men, Natasha?"

 

"Barton found them. Sometimes… you get what you pay for. Let's just keep an eye on them, alright? And no slips. This is the type who'll sell anything to anyone, I suspect."

 

"There are ways of preventing that," Bucky mumbled before stalking out. "I hate this world."

 

Steve met her eye and sighed heavily. "He's been like that since he first heard how these men talk. They… are not very respectful. Of anyone or anything."

 

"No, they're not, but Barnes has to learn that the world's like that. People are base lowlifes sometimes." Natasha added off-hand, almost to herself, "it's interesting to see he's picked up some kind of moral compass."

 

"I tried telling him that, but he's remembering more now, I'm pretty sure. He's talking like we used to about old ways. I had to grab him when they… well, when they were talking."

 

"So, he's _remembering_ the moral compass." Natasha chose to ignore the implications of Steve's shuffling words. She knew the guys were sleazy and she'd be informing Barton of as much later that day. "Keep an eye on him too. You are, aren't you?" Steve nodded. "Good, because there's no telling what other personality traits he might remember from when. He might slit one of their throats like he's peeling a potato next time they make a comment about… whatever they're commenting on."

 

Steve looked glum as he pulled the holomask back on, so his new face looked glum as well. But, he managed a smile and then held the door for her. Ever a gentleman. When they returned to the front room, Wilson was talking to Bucky in light tones but a tight voice, which told Natasha that the pot was close to boiling over.

 

"What now?" Steve's commanding bark sounded noticeably trademark. She'd have to tell him to work on that.

 

Wilson rubbed his head. "Uh… short story? The boys are asshats and Buck's about to make that a literal description." He looked torn between laughing and panicking. "I tried to tell him that some people are just like that, but–"

 

"That's unacceptable."

 

Sam dropped his shoulders and closed his eyes. "That's unacceptable," he echoed back. "That's all he says."

 

"You know this is how things are, Bucky. It's not new, just a different form of it. Remember?"

 

Bucky's eyes were as hard as his face. "I remember. And I remember what you used to do."

 

"And how you used to drag me away kicking and screaming?"

 

"Yes."

 

"And, why was that?"

 

"Because there was no point to it. It was futile."

 

"And how is this any different?"

 

Bucky's metal arm whirred as he clenched his fists. "Because now we can do something about it."

 

"Just because we have the strength to doesn't mean we have the right to, or that it'll actually help. There are always other ways, non-violent ways to go about things first, and they usually make a bigger difference than brute force in the long run."

 

Steve waited, but Bucky had no response. He suddenly looked deflated and somber.

 

"You're allowed your righteous indignation. Trust me, I know it well. We have to draw the line somewhere, though."

 

"And vigilante shit never flies, man," Wilson added in.

 

"You're right, Steve. I don't… I don't know what I was thinking." Bucky shook his head and pursed his lips, surly again, but now at himself.

 

"You were thinking that they'd wear their asses well on their heads, I know, and you're right, they would. We just can't be the ones to make 'em. Come on. I'll come down with you two to help, though I don't know how _much_ help I'll be." Sam tossed a wink back at Nat and then followed Steve down the little hobbit stairs.

 

Over the past week Sam had come to know that Steve wasn't exactly capable of lying. So, exaggeration wasn't something to expect from him. And so, it wasn't something to expect from Buck either. That never quite got through his thick skull, though, because, as they finally made it out to the delivery van, he was still shocked at the amount of crap sitting in it.

 

"You weren't kidding," he scoffed. "You two have been at this for half an hour and all this is still left. Have they taken up a single damn thing?"

 

"After they dropped off the bed frames, no."

 

Steve was resigned as he scooped up a mattress and tossed it over his shoulder. Buck looked like he was still considering vigilantism. Sam followed his gaze to the roof where the two others were perched, hunched over something. He hoped it was the winch, he figured it wasn't. Turned out, it didn't matter. The whole point of the thing soon proved _point_ less as Steve and Bucky carried the couch up the stairs themselves with only minimal grunting and crushed fingers. Sam supervised.

 

Within the hour everything was in the apartment and the delivery men were stomping angrily down the steps without their fee but with their lives, which they had no idea was a miracle. The argument that had immediately preceded Nat closing the door in their faces had been a nasty one on their end and deadly calm on hers. By the end, Buck's arm whirring behind him wasn't the only thing Sam had been wary of, or even the most pressing. Nat was all courtesy and composure, but when she shut that door there was a fire in her eyes. She'd spun off and strode quickly to the back, obviously not the picture of serenity she'd seemed. Curiously enough, of all of them, Buck was the calmest on the surface. He was slumped against the front window with those eyes seeing right through their acts. Steve was red faced but quiet and Sam could even feel his ears ringing. Civilian life wasn't a walk in the park, less so when you're trying to lie low, and Buck could tell now.

 

"It wasn't just me." Buck's voice was as quiet as it was accusatory. "You were all upset by them. They were wrong."

 

"No, we're fine. Keeping a cover is just stressful." Steve looked ridiculously constipated as he lied. Sam had to cover his face with his hands to hide his own reaction. The last thing they needed was Buck getting even more disenchanted with things. Especially since this was his first taste of people, bitter flavors were to be washed away or sweetened up at all costs. "It'll get easier for us all with practice."

 

"Don't lie to me, Steve. You're not good at it," Bucky muttered.

 

"I'm–I'm not."

 

"You are. And those men were worse than you're leading me to believe. This is it? This is how people are now?"

 

Steve wiped his hands on the legs of his pants as he shook his head. His hands must've been sweating because his upper lip was visibly beading. "Okay, they weren't great. I'll admit that. But, Bucky, they're not the norm. Not everyone is like that."

 

"Sure. You're _not_ lying to me. The average joes just _happen_ to be two scumbags. Sure," he scoffed, eyes dark. "The whole damn world's gone to hell." He stalked off to the back as well, grumbling about more disillusionments and bewailing the moral decline like the ninety-plus year old he was. Sam could've sworn he'd heard his grandfather say some of the same stuff.

 

"Well, that went well," Sam said to the disaster zone that was the living room.

 

Steve ignored the sarcasm and began unpacking boxes. Something was broken in him, Sam would have bet his right hand on it. He wasn't sure why but he knew what was broken. Buck's whole attitude had soured significantly and after all that promise. Steve was bound to be discouraged by that, but Sam didn't understand why to that extent. Maybe he was tired? All jokes aside, though, he'd have figured there'd be some relief or back-patting after that. Buck had actively helped and hadn't done anything bat shit crazy or even violent. He'd thought and spoken before acting and they had furniture without anyone dying or their cover getting blown. It really had gone pretty well overall. But things had been such hard going lately, maybe Buck's last little comment was the straw that broke the patriotic camel's back.

 

He couldn't know, though, if he didn't ask. So he did.

 

"What's up with you, man? Did Buck's rain cloud find another parade to piss on?"

 

Steve sighed with a hint of a laugh but shook his head. "Not now, Sam."

 

"Yeah, yeah, sure. Bottle it up and ignore it. We all know how well that works. It's not like it'll eat right through you like battery acid. No. No, that's fine. That's good. Swallow the emotions. It's not _manly_ to have pain. It's like–"

 

"Sam!" Steve clapped him on the back. He was smiling, even if in a tired, exasperated way. "It's not that. We'll talk later till your ears bleed, if ya' want. It's just we've got other things to do now and I'm _tired_ , Sam. Tired. And…" He stood slowly and brushed off his knees. "I've got to see what's eating at Natasha."

 

"Alright. You go do that. I'll sit my happy ass out here and try to read these…Korean? Instructions." Sam let him go, but he knew that Steve knew what was wrong with Nat. She'd found those douche canoes insolent and wanted to pop their little pimple-heads. Why that'd affected her when usually she was crazy cool was bound to be the same as with everyone else: Buck. It was exhausting weighing every word and action and watching him constantly. Everyone was worn thin, it didn't matter how much or how little they rested or found distractions. It was always there, in the background, like a buzzing fly.

 

Sam was glad for the busy work because of that, so he laid out the incomprehensible instructions and started trying to matching the puzzle pieces together. Steve shuffled back out not a minute later with a shrug.

 

"She's on the phone. I think poor Clint's getting an ear full."

 

"And Buck?"

 

Steve grimaced. "In our room. He wouldn't open the door."

 

"I'm sure he's fine." Sam was in no way sure of that, but the windows had bars over them so they'd hear him wrenching them free and escaping. Besides that, there wasn't much to actively worry about. It was all going down inside his head and there was no telling what sort of shit show that was. "He's probably just trying to come to terms with what's new now."

 

Sam's words offered no encouragement. "That's what I'm worried about. Those men weren't anything if not the worst possible examples of normal people. Besides us, those are the first he's met. He might never trust another single person."

 

"Do you think he would have anyways?"

 

That gave Steve pause. "No," he admitted eventually.

 

"No. Buck's already got a pretty poor estimation of this world. Think about it. At worst, all those douchebags did was to confirm his suspicions. It'll be fine." Sam even managed to convince himself with that.

 

"I hope so. I'm just… I don't know what else to do. I'm so…"

 

"Tired?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Yeah, I know. Some superhero you are. Worn out by a petulant man-child. Mind you, a petulant man-child with a metal arm… who… _could_ kill all of us in under thirty seconds. Meh, I'll give you that. You can be tired."

 

It was more than Bucky's potential to kill them all. Sam knew that. Steve knew that he knew that. He'd just avoided the more sensitive subject that Steve's closest friend and a relationship, which had held him together like glue when everything else was falling apart, could itself be split in two by any misstep. Or misspeaking. Which had just happened. He shouldn't have lied to Bucky, but how could he not have? He didn't need to think that the whole world was like those men or that they were as bad as they were or… or anything. Steve wished he could shield Bucky from everything. From his past, from the horrors of history, from the compromises they all had to make, but that had failed. Now, there was humanity. He wanted to protect him from its pulp and bilge. But that was just another failure waiting to happen. His shield was only so big, Bucky only so still. And his eyes were always seeing. Maybe the direct approach was the best, but he just didn't know.

 

Steve was tired. Bone tired. His mind moved like boots in mud. Things… he just couldn't get things to the place they needed to be. After that morning… things had been going well. The day had started well. After all that, this fluke made it feel like the mud had turned to quicksand. It was one step forward two steps back with Bucky, it seemed. And they weren't big steps to begin with. Steve felt like they were all still in the same place, stuck in that damn quicksand as well. Bucky was filled with anger, resentment, and confusion. Steve felt helpless to do anything about it. Sam helped and Natasha pulled strings but nothing was working.

 

Putting furniture together seemed so pointless at that moment, but Steve did it anyways. He watched a bookshelf materialize from his bare hands without really realizing how he'd managed that, brewing over what he could have done differently to temper Bucky to the world, what he could do, what he should do. And that was all his mind went over. Boots stuck in the mud. Eventually he had to voice these concerns to Sam, to stop from drowning. When he spoke, even it sounded to his ears like sluggish pops.

 

Sam laughed at him though, called him 'Captain Dramerica,' and then laughed some more. Things were as different as night and day with Buck, he'd continued. Of course, Steve had persisted and ignored Sam's gentle rebuff, insisting that they were just treading water. But maybe it just felt that way because that's what Steve himself was doing, lingering on stuff like he was. Thinking about it, maybe Steve had to admit he was wrong. Maybe they weren't stuck in the mud really. His spirits were. All this emotional waffling had left its toll on Steve. He was becoming a little unstable and that was the last thing they needed. Steve needed to be a rock. So, he looked at things from a broader perspective. After a few minutes of that, he was convinced that with Bucky there had been some improvements. Many in fact.

 

That much became unavoidably apparent when he came back out into the living room to help, of his own accord. The bedroom door clicked open as Steve and Sam began to put together the television stand. They didn't say anything or look up, but they shared a quick glance. Bucky strode straight out and fell in beside them without any prompting. He was truly an different human being. It was so unavoidably apparent that Steve had to admit it, out loud, to Sam.

 

They were the three of them variously kneeling, squatting or sitting on the floor when it happened, pieces of wood and plastic strewn in front of them with little to no order in their arrangement, nuts, bolts and all the rest peppering the open space in between. It was a genuine mess and for a few seconds they all just stared at it. Sam and Steve had done this already, the tips of their fingers were sore from picking up tiny screws out of the carpet, their eyes seeing all the hardware as one big, silver blob. So they paused and kept pausing. Bucky, though, was unfazed. He gave Sam and Steve an appraising look, rolled his eyes and began sorting screws.

 

Steve ducked his head to hide a grin and nodded. "Well, Sam, you were right." The mentally-mutilated breathing weapon they had captured a week ago would never have sorted hardware. He'd never have rolled his eyes either.

 

"Right about what?" Bucky asked immediately, sucking on his teeth and comparing two screws.

 

"About how you're doing really well here."

 

It was only half a lie. Bucky still sniffed it out, snorting. "You have low standards all of a sudden." He spoke quietly and kept his eyes on his task. It was a few more seconds of silence before he continued. "But, I wasn't going to leave you out here to put this together by yourselves. I'm not an asshole. Apparently. Now I know that," he finished with an offhand shrug that spoke volumes to the contrary.

 

"Nope. Not an asshole," Sam agreed. "And you have as many moral bones as you should, and self-control. You haven't flipped shit once. Not once."

 

Bucky didn't move much in response. He was basically speaking to his knees when he answered. "Yes. An indignantly righteous… non-asshole. With a history of self-control issues. And violence. I'm doing _so_ well." Bucky replied drily. It was broken and slow, but Steve could recognize the delivery. Even though it took so much effort, Bucky was trying for something old, whether he knew it or not. Sam laughed, delighted.

 

"And now, sarcasm! That's great. I _love_ sarcasm."

 

Steve chuckled despite his mood. "That's not actually new."

 

"No? Both of you? Oh, delightful. It'll be a sass brigade." Sam said it like he didn't mean it, but he was smiling like he did. Smiling and looking straight at Steve. It couldn't have been more obvious if he'd said 'I told you so' out loud. That didn't matter much. The fact was that Bucky was _so_ much better, even if there was work yet to be done. There would always work to be done. That was a fact of life. Steve needed to cheer up and climb up out of the mud pit for good.

 

By the time they'd finished with all the living room furniture, he'd done as much and more. He was even smiling. Sullen, reserved, and suspicious Steve could deal with so long as Bucky kept gravitating towards interaction like he was. He didn't always participate, but he was there at his or Sam's elbow listening and even reacting some to their conversations, and always joining them in what they were doing manually. It seemed their time in Banner's bunker had helped him acculturate to living communally pretty smoothly. When Natasha returned from reaming out Clint, he followed her around too for a little while, helping her with little chores until Sam and Steve needed another pair of hands mounting the television.

 

"It's adorable," Sam whispered as they watched him retreat back to the kitchen to finish helping unpack dishware. "He's like the most dangerous puppy that was ever adopted. All he wants is _love_."

 

Steve gave Sam a withering glance but allowed a smile after a second. "In a way, yes. I'm just glad he's not pushing us away."

 

"Mm-hmm. Maybe he'll even open up some more. We should get him some treats to encourage that sort of behavior." Steve rolled his eyes, only fueling the fire. "Positive reinforcement, that is. It works. How I taught my dog to sit. Bet it'll work for Buck."

 

And with that, Steve walked away, leaving Sam guffawing to himself in the corner. With everything unpacked and put away, the apartment was looking more and more like a home. Natasha had managed to secure anything and everything they could want, except for food. That they still needed to go purchase at the grocery store. Or, as her agenda had specified, that she and Sam still needed to purchase at the grocery store.

 

"We'll be back in a few hours," she called over her shoulder, pushing Sam towards the front door. "You two can be trusted here on your own, can't you?" The look was coquettish at best and Steve grinned in response. "We're only a phone call away," she added more seriously and then strode out of the apartment.

 

With the door shut and the sound of footsteps receding down the stairs, it grew deafeningly quiet inside. Steve clicked his teeth together and looked around. There was nothing left for them to do, chore-wise. Everything was put together and tidy. The packing trash had all been taken out already. Now, all that was left was to live in the place. That was daunting. Bucky too seemed apprehensive about the prospect of free-time. He was glancing around at the place from under his brows as if daring the calm to attack him.

After all the busy-work they'd created for him, all the pre-planned activities and therapy, just doing nothing was going to be a challenge. For Steve as much as Bucky. Thinking back to the bunker, the idea of just being was suffocating. They needed to do something, make something, plan something, talk about something. That, or watch television. Steve was not a great consumer of television as of yet, so he resorted to the conversation option. It needed to happen, anyways. There were things they still needed to discuss, things that Bucky needed to face and verbalize. And Steve wanted to get more out in the open too, now that he was actually acknowledging Bucky's improvements. It was heart-to-heart talk time again.

 

"Why did you lie to me?"

 

The question made Steve jump. Bucky's intuition had apparently come back in full force and all of a sudden he was able to read Steve like an open book again. It was a bittersweet development, seeing as the two-way relationship was now a one-way. Buck's face was still as undiscernible as twenty personality traits before.

 

"I was trying to protect you."

 

" _You_ were trying to protect _me_? You gotta stop trying to save me. That's…" the rest of that sentence breathed through the room, even unspoken. That was his job. Or it used to be. Bucky shook his head and glowered at the floor. "I can protect myself. Expert assassin… Remember?"

 

"That doesn't mean I'm going to stop. Everybody needs back-up. And besides, it's about time I paid you back for all those years you took care of me." Steve was undeterred by the sullen pout he received in response. He barreled right on. "I am sorry, though, Bucky. I won't lie again. You deserve to be treated like a competent adult, without sugar-coating. From now on, we'll let you see it all, without the rose-tinted glasses. Alright?"

 

"Good. Lying's not your bag." He peered up from behind his hair. "Some things shouldn't change."

 

"Oh, I agree. I'm… I should just stick to honesty. It works better. For everyone."

 

"Yes."

 

The apartment fell quiet again, the two of them standing awkwardly in the middle of the room despite all the furniture to use. For a moment, it seemed like the ghosts of their former selves were there, smaller, smiling, lounging on the couch. But it was the two of them, in all their bulk and pain, haunting those kids from Brooklyn. It would have been so much simpler if they could just revert to that time. Finally, Steve blinked away the ghosts and took a seat on the couch. No point in extending the heartache.

 

"Steve?"

 

"Yeah?"

 

"How bad is the world now? Really?" Bucky slipped his skin-colored glove off and laid it on the kitchen table before joining Steve on the couch. "And be honest."

 

He scoffed and shook his head. "You're gonna give me hell about that now?" There was no humor on Bucky's face but it had been there in his words. He nodded. Steve smiled. "Alright. I deserve it. Well…" A deep breath wasn't going to make this any easier, but he took one anyway. "It's not great, but you know that already. I know you do. And, in all seriousness, it wasn't great in our time, even before the war. But you know that too. Uh…" he ran a hand through his hair, pondering how exactly to evaluate the 'badness' of the world. "People are different. That's for sure. And… not usually for the better. Some of the courtesy died in this world while we were in the ice. Crime is worse. Money's even more important to most people. Um… well, impertinence is common. It's just different. International relations are somehow worse," he added with a sour scoff. "A lot is worse. But a lot is better too. You'll see that. You're bound to see that. Technology helps a lot of people in a lot of ways. Health's better. Here. I don't know, Buck. It's probably best if you draw those sort of conclusions on your own. You'll see more of it soon. In an hour or so, actually. We're going to meet the fire chief. He's just a normal guy too."

 

Bucky sucked in his lips and nodded. "If you say so."

 

"Well, isn't that what you _want_ to do? See for yourself?"

 

He looked up and shrugged his shoulder. "I think so. Those men this morning were…" he grimaced looking for the word.

 

"Discouraging?" Steve offered and Bucky nodded. "I know. I meant it when I said they weren't the best representatives of their type. Don't get me wrong. Not everyone is like us, but not everyone is like them either." Bucky held his eye, brow folded together. He was looking into Steve like he used to. Eventually, he dropped his eyes and nodded again. He believed him. "Don't be discouraged, Buck. Please. You've got plenty to look forward to. Like…" Steve reached for the television remote control. "Like television. It's incredible now."

 

They spent the next half hour trying to find something to actually watch on the television that was so incredible. It was surprisingly difficult considering the variety. Steve switched through channel after channel, frowning at the programs and sighing when he didn't understand their appeal or found it downright unsettling. Bucky watched raptly, face blank again, although time and again, usually when Steve reacted likewise, he would scowl at something or someone. In time they settled on a nature documentary, after Bucky requested that Steve turn the channel back. He was apparently fascinated by the big cats. It was easy to share his fascination, especially once Steve really started to pay attention. They hadn't had this sort of information available to them before and the picture was clear and beautiful.

 

"I'm not like a tiger," Bucky mumbled as the program went to yet another advertisement break. He sat back in the couch with his arms crossed, looking broody.

 

"What?"

 

"A tiger."

 

"What do you mean?... Oh…" Sam's comment several days before. Bucky had not only heard it, he'd internalized it and catalogued it to reflect on later. Now he was unhappy with it. "That was just a joke, Buck."

 

"I know that. I'm not stupid."

 

Steve frowned, taken aback. "I know you're not stupid." He waited but Bucky didn't offer any response. "What… is it about the joke that upset you?"

 

"It just said it," he grumbled, but didn't look back up. In reality, the program had just said quite a lot. Steve had no idea what this 'it' was that Bucky meant. He had to ask again.

 

"What?"

 

"They're solitary," he replied to his crossed arms. "And…"

 

"You don't think you're like that."

 

Bucky sucked on his lips and then sat forward again as the program resumed. There was more to his comment than he got around to voicing. Sure, Bucky wasn't a solitary creature anymore, but he had been. For years and years and years, and not by choice. As he looked at the screen but thought about the similarities, Steve grew a little unsettled. Sam had been rather too accurate in his joke and that might have hit home with Bucky. Because, what qualities he shared with the big cat, Bucky had developed as the Winter Soldier, again against his own choice. Steve grimaced and held his breath for the next animal to come under focus by the narrator. He did find a silver lining, though. Bucky was beginning to decide what kind of traits he was going to have, and most of them were _not_ those that had been forced upon him. That was encouraging progress.

 

That documentary had ended and been replaced by one about the Artic seas by the time Natasha and Sam returned. Bucky was still sullen but the Aurora Borealis had sufficiently distracted him from being completely withdrawn. He didn't engage in conversation or make eye contact, but he did stand when Steve did and followed to help unload groceries without being asked. He wasn't a solitary creature.

 

When they'd opened the door, the tension had hit Sam in the face like a wall of smoke. He could practically see the waves of discomfort coming off of Steve on the couch. And all that was made to seem like nothing compared to Buck's cold shoulder – literally – towards him. Buck hadn't been great with eye contact to begin with, but now he wouldn't even turn his body in Sam's direction or nod in response to him speaking. He continued the freeze out towards Nat, but now it was somehow worse. The only person he even acknowledged as existing was Steve.

 

Now, as they crouched down the stairs to get a second load of groceries, Sam broached the subject. "So… how'd it go?" He knew it didn't go well, but he was dying to know _how_ it didn't go well, and what had happened that set Buck five days back towards him and Nat.

 

"We watched a nature documentary," Steve replied wearily. "On big cats."

 

Ahead of them, Nat sighed, but Sam still didn't get it. He squinted, racking his brain as they stepped back out in the sunshine. Big cats? Big… cats… what did that have to do with anything? They hadn't done anything to hurt any animals or anything like that… The only thing Sam could think of was… that joke. No. That didn't make any sense… he couldn't be mad about that. That was days ago, when he was in one of his fits. And it was harmless joke. How could he take offense to that? "Tigers and leopards and that stuff?" He asked as casually as possible.

 

"Yes," Steve gave Sam a meaningful, and apologetic, look. "It was very informative. We learned _all_ about them."

 

"Yeah? What kind of things? I don't know much about 'em." Sam found Buck was watching him with a dubious expression on his face. "You know, just stuff you read at the zoo."

 

Buck finished looking him over and then marched inside with about twenty-eight bags of groceries. He wasn't fooled. Sam waited until the exterior door shut behind him and then turned back to Steve.

 

"What in god's name did they say about the damn cats that he took offense to?"

 

Steve shrugged, exhaustion on his face. "That they're solitary… I don't know. He's very volatile, emotionally, right now. I actually think it was the _accuracy_ of the comment that he is bristling at. Turns out, the Winter Soldier was a lot like a tiger. Man-killing and circus-training qualities included."

 

"Well, excuse the fuck out of me." Sam blinked in astonishment. "I make a joke, that's not even technically offensive, like, three days ago, and all of a sudden he's gonna freeze me out? Rude."

 

"Just apologize, or explain why it's not personal, Wilson." Nat was shutting all the doors and herding them towards the exterior door. "And get inside. You forgot your face, _Hal_."

 

Steve visibly panicked and then ducked inside as quickly as was nonchalantly possible. Sam and Nat followed on his heels. The stairs squeaked ominously under them as they stomped back up to the apartment. Sam mulled over how he could apologize without making the insult more… insulting.

 

"And why Nat too?"

 

In front of them Steve shook his head. "Beats me."

 

"I can deal," she answered. "I've had worse. Whatever you decide to do though, Wilson, make it quick. We've got a chore chart to make and I want everyone as amenable as possible. To one another, and the chores. Got it?"

 

"Yes, ma'am!" Sam only smiled when she smirked back at him. He had a plan in mind. Whether it would work or not, though, that was up to the rapport he'd established with Buck and just how offended he actually was. Him having developed a complete sense of humor would help too. "So, Steve, man, we got a _shit_ _ton_ of food. What do you think of fish tacos tonight, hmm? Yum."

 

Sure enough, Buck was listening when they stepped inside. His arms were crossed, his chin tucked, eyes locked on the door from under his brow. He wasn't even trying to act like he was doing anything else. Just stood, leaning against the table, waiting. Sam beamed at him.

 

"What do _you_ think of fish tacos, Buck?"

 

Buck considered him for a few moments, then cocked his head to the side. "You have an apology to make?" He didn't seem all bent out of shape about it, just like he wanted to gauge Sam's reaction. Or maybe get him back for the 'offending' comment.

 

"Yes. With fish tacos. They are friggin' fantastic, really good – I know I'm braggin', but it's true – and I know you'll love them. And me for them. Perfect apology. And not what tigers would eat," he added quickly and quietly with a bigger grin.

 

Nat cleared her throat and Steve shook his head at the refrigerator, but it was okay. Sam knew how to read a room. Buck shifted his weight from one foot to another and uncrossed his arms. If anything, he very nearly looked amused. "I know," he said softly. "I overreacted."  

They all stood there for a minute, taking in the self-awareness that confession displayed. Except Buck. He was puzzling something over.

 

"What's a fish taco?" He asked with all sincerity. Nat chuckled into a grocery bag. "Is it just fish?"

 

"No, it's a taco with fish in it. And avocado and cheese and chutney and other tasty stuff. You know." Sam nodded and then glanced over at Steve for backup. He only shrugged, looking perplexed also.

 

"What's a taco?"

 

Sam felt his mouth drop open. "It's–it's a tortilla, you know, and you grill it and… you two really don't know what a taco is?" They both shook their heads.

 

"It was popularized post-World War II, Wilson."

 

"I mean, I've seen some, I think," Steve added. "But not back then."

 

"Hot damn. Well, that settles it. You two are finding out what a taco is tonight. By eating one. Or six." He scoffed. "Don't know what a damn taco is. Are you kidding me? Poor uncultured bastards. You two have a lot to learn, but you've got Sam Wilson. You'll learn." He was already thinking up the most culturally diverse list of meals that he could as he joined Nat at the pantry. "Oh, you'll learn."

 

"That went well," Nat whispered to him, stacking potatoes. "You were lucky he's developed a bit of an emotional barometer."

 

"That, and humor. He knows I was joking. Didn't you, Buck?" Sam leaned around the cabinet door and found Buck and Steve at the computer. For once he hadn't been listening. He looked up in response. "Didn't you know I was joking?"

 

His eyes tightened and he nodded after an unsettlingly long pause. Sam beamed.

 

"Y'all looking up tacos?" Another nod. "No need. I'm gonna show you tacos. All sorts of tacos. You're getting a culinary education."

 

The cabinet door buffed against Sam's chin and tapped shut. Nat had finished unloading the groceries and closed the pantry on his face. She slinked past with a smirk. "I'm sure they will, Wilson." She tapped his shoulder so he'd followed. "Just like you've promised before."

 

Grocery shopping with Nat had been interesting. Sam had realized while it was happening that that was the first time they'd hung out just the two of them. She – and he'd known this, figured this at least – had a lot of personality going on under all the calculation and efficiency. If he wasn't a modest man, he'd have said she was flirting with him. He knew better, though. She was a professional. She used gender expectations to work people 'round her little finger. And then she broke them. Or, you know, got out of them what she wanted. He didn't quite know what she'd gotten out of him, but he assumed she had. The flirting had ended before they reached the van again. Now she was back to normal, smirking Nat. He wondered if she could work Buck that way if she tried. Probably not. Sam had a problem with falling for every person he met.

 

At the table, Nat pulled out her beloved notebook and began drawing up a list. Or maybe it was a chart. No, it was. It was the legendary chore chart. Great. Buck was also eyeing it with some reservation. Steve meanwhile was still looking at tacos.

 

"I don't see how this is appetizing."

 

Sam rolled his eyes and shut the laptop on his fingers. "It'll be goddamn delicious. Don't worry about it. You just gotta have it done right. Which–"

 

"Which you will take care of for them. Yes, we know, Wilson. Now, guys, this is important. So, listen. This whole arrangement will only work if we all put effort into it. I don't know what you guys are used to, if anything, but we'll all have to pull our weight. That means chores." Natasha finished her tiny, draft of a chart and looked up. Thankfully, both Sam and Steve were nodding along. Bucky was staring like breaking eye contact would prevent him from understanding. "Daily chores, semi-weekly chores, chores that are not so great, but have to get done. If we split them up, it'll be easier. And I'm not getting stuck doing everything, or anyone else, and this place is going to stay tidy. Mental order follows physical order. Anyways, here every day we'll need a few things done. Meals, dishes, kitchen surfaces cleaned. That sort of thing. Twice a week we'll need others: garbage, laundry, floors. And then other things even less often, like grocery shopping, bathroom cleaning, bill pay. For now, I thought Wilson, Steve and I would take one from each category and cycle through them with Barnes helping each in turns. Until you're ready to do your own, of course, Barnes."

 

His eyes flicked away from her, to an empty spot on the table. He was embarrassed. Natasha catalogued that. She'd take care of that later. It couldn't be helped for now. She wetted her lips and then looked to the other two. They seemed to be waiting, Steve patiently, Sam looking like he had something important to say that he couldn't keep to himself. Sure enough, he pulled an exaggerated frown and shook his head.

 

"Now, I'm all for teamwork and sharing duty and all that. That's good. But I am not touching anybody's underwear. I'll cook every damn meal, if I have to, as long as I don't have to do laundry." He shivered and grimaced like he'd tasted something nasty. Natasha shrugged.

 

"Alright. Wilson gets perma-meal duty." She marked that down on the chart. "And, I'll take bills, since… well, I know the cover back and front and I have the bank account." She marked that down as well. "We'll cycle through kitchen cleaning, you and I, Steve, with Barnes' help. Uh…" clicking her tongue she looked at what was left. "Wilson won't be on laundry, so we'll cycle that as well. That'll leave garbage and floors to him and whichever of us is left. For grocery shopping we'll cycle through, two per trip while the other two clean the bathrooms." She nodded, happy with the arrangement. "Happy?"

 

"Happy."

 

"No laundry equals happy Sam."

 

Bucky grunted his approval.

 

"Excellent." Natasha checked the time. "Well, it's just about lunch time now, so might as well go ahead and start with the chores. Wilson, you're on for lunch. Steve, why don't you get the new linens in the washer, while I set the utilities and inventory everything else. Okay?" She looked up to find Bucky staring balefully. He was feeling extremely something. Natasha guessed ignored. "And Barnes, who do you want to help?"

 

"Sam," he answered without hesitation. Steve nodded, as if expecting it. Nobody like laundry. Wilson was elated.

 

"Great! I've got a cooking enthusiast, here. I needed help anyway. Come on, we'll make chicken salad and listen to some music for once. You like music, right? Who doesn't like music?" Bucky shrugged like he honestly didn't know and followed Wilson into the kitchen. He kept chattering at Bucky as he set up a little phone dock and turned on something mellow. Bucky was immediately entranced. "Yeah, you like that don't you? I've got good taste. We'll get you set up. A life without music is missing something. I bet you like folk music."

 

Natasha heard Steve chuckling and turned to share a look with him. She edged his way as he started gathering the towels and things from their plastic sack. "I'm glad he's here."

 

"Yeah, me too." Steve popped the tags off and threw them back in the bag. "He never gets tired. Does he?"

 

"Doesn't seem that way... It's good, 'cause we need the help. He keeps cover well, was great at the grocery store today, flirting like he meant it. And he knows how to handle Barnes… What happened while we were gone, Steve?"

 

He dropped his head, mouth tightening. "Just a documentary. He… I think he saw some qualities he didn't like in his past self, his assassin self, in the show and then connected that to Sam's cat comment from days ago. Things devolved from there. It was more shame than anything, I think."

 

"Mmm." Natasha chewed her lip and sighed. "He's going to have a few more of those, I would imagine. Be ready."

 

Steve was watching them in the kitchen and Natasha turned to follow his gaze. Bucky had a giant butcher knife in his hand but he was only slicing chicken. He seemed stable, even engaged.

 

"He never used to like cooking," Steve said with no small degree of sadness. "Always claimed he was all thumbs with no taste. Maybe that was because everything tasted awful, then, and was a pain to prepare."

 

Chicken chopped, Bucky washed his hands and waited beside Wilson for more directions. The song switched on Wilson's phone to something more indie. Bucky turned his head and listened hard. For a moment he looked like he had turned completely inward, but not to hide, to reflect. Something about the lyrics maybe? They resounded with him probably. Natasha made a note of the song. She'd compile him a playlist later.

Steve continued to watch with fondness in his eyes. He'd finished de-tagging all the linens and was now just folding and unfolding them in the appearance of being busy. Natasha left him be until the song ended and its effect faded. Then she laid a hand on his arm.

 

"I'll be on the computer for a while. Let me know if you need any _help_ with those."

 

He pursed his lips at her tease. "I may be old but I can figure out a washing machine."

 

For a while then, it was only Wilson's eccentric music that was heard. Sometimes there was a quick instruction here and there from him behind the gentle chords or pumping bass beat, the clacking of the knife, or the tapping of Natasha's keys. It was all very peaceful, very calming. Natasha even thought she heard Steve humming along in the back.

 

Bills were set up to be paid quickly, utilities registered even before that. Natasha just had a few quick things to put together or inventory. The creak of the utility closet signaled Steve's return, and in a moment he was sitting with her at the table, watching Bucky again, now wearing an unguarded smile. An instrumental song picked up and Wilson was singing something under his breath, handing vegetables freshly washed for Bucky to chop. Then he started seasoning.

 

Natasha almost saw it in slow motion: the way Bucky's brow furrowed, his eyes grew distant and his nose wrinkled. He blocked the sneeze in his elbow, saving their food from it. Unfortunately, in the process he showered it with his own blood. The knife, sharp as it was, and the speed and force with which Bucky moved it, ended up slicing the top of his left shoulder, right next to the metal meld point. He must not have felt the gash at first, because of its location. It was the blood on the food that startled him, by the look on his face. His whole body grew rigid and his eyes widened, dilating his pupils to pinpoints. The knife fell from his limp hand then, point down, onto, and through Wilson's foot.

 

They could hear the steel of the blade twanging as it wobbled for an instant before the shouting started.

 

"I can't have knives!" Bucky roared, staring at the gore-splattered food in horror and then over to Wilson, looking for the source. Then he saw where the knife landed. "Oh, god, your foot!"

 

Wilson seemed to be in shock, not moving even as the table and chair clattered behind him and Bucky shouted. He was staring at Bucky's shoulder and the food alternatively. "My… my foot? The food, man. You bled on the food. So much blood. Where'd it come from? Oh, sweet holy Jesus, your shoulder!" He looked Bucky up and down and then caught sight of his own mishap. "MY FOOT! FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCKING HELL FUCK!" As soon as he saw the knife, he faltered. Natasha caught him and eased him into a chair, while Steve barreled past and slapped a hand on the river of blood coming from Bucky's shoulder.

 

"YOU BETTER NOT HAVE HIV, MAN. I AM NOT MAGIC JOHNSON!"

 

"I haven't taken any… HIV. What's HIV? Who's Magic… your foot!"

 

Somewhere, in that insane analytical corner of Natasha's mind, it came to her attention that Bucky's reaction was very odd. He'd seen much more blood in his time and done much more violent things. And yet, here he was in shock over a spurt of blood and a mild puncture wound. Well… maybe not _mild_ , she realized as she began securing a tourniquet around Wilson's ankle. "This is why you wear shoes when you cook," she muttered without thinking about it. Wilson glared at her wide-eyed.

 

"You don't fucking say? Well, I'll be wearing STEEL TOED BOOTS from now on. SHIT!" He yelped when she removed the knife. "I did not survive multiple special ops to die from a cooking accident. I will not! That bleeding has got to stop!"

 

"I'm working on it. Steve. Towel." He grabbed the other hand towel from the drawer and threw it to her. The first he was using to staunch the gusher that had gored up their lunch.

 

"Bucky. Bucky? Are you alright?" Steve lifted the towel and found the flow lessened. At least Natasha couldn't see anything like she was dealing with anymore. Super-healing. Steve ducked and bobbed to catch Bucky's eye, but he was comatose, staring off and through everything. He shook his shoulder, hard. Hard enough to make Bucky's teeth clack together. He blinked a few times then.

 

"I stabbed Sam Wilson, Steve. I stabbed him. There's blood everywhere. What did I do?" Bucky was stock still. He didn't even budge to check his shoulder, which had to hurting him by now. Or maybe not.

 

Steve was panicking more than Bucky. He looked over at Wilson, who was still spouting profanities but under his breath. "You didn't stab him, Bucky. The knife fell on his foot. You didn't stab him."

 

"Yeah, it's not your fault, man." The fact that Sam could respond, much more do so without any anger, was a testament to his training. Also his good nature. "It was an accident, Buck. Don't worry." With the knife on the table and the red fountains caulked, his eyes were clearing. "See? I'm fine. All patched up. How's the shoulder?"

 

Bucky met Steve's eye finally. The two stood, communicating something silently. After Natasha counted eight seconds, Bucky unfroze. His breathing fell heavily, panting to catch what he'd held. At Steve's insistence he let his hand hold the towel in place and nodded a few times when asked if he was okay. His brow was knitted again when he looked over, but upturned a bit. He sucked in his lips as Steve walked him over, completing the expression of utter angst. Wilson patted him on the knee a few times and nodded his assurance, pale as he was from the blood loss. Bucky held his eye and let a range of emotion flit across his face, but he didn't say anything. The reticence was back.

 

Steve looked lost as he met her eye. The reversion had thrown him for a loop. Or, Natasha assumed it was a reversion. It explained the panic and shock. She made a snap decision.

 

"Did you revert, Barnes? At the blood did you revert to '45?" He had been acting self-aware the past few days. He probably could tell them what was happening in that head of his by now. Especially after today's identity(ies)-epiphany.

 

Bucky opened his mouth and then looked past her. He considered that beyond briefly and then met her eye again, lips crumpled white. He nodded.

 

"That's okay, Barnes. It may continue to happen. You're healing, it's a process."

 

"Yeah, you gotta work through recovery, man. And I mean _work_." Wilson groaned as he put his foot down. He was sweating. The shock must have been wearing off and the pain setting in. Natasha needed to get a better look at that wound, maybe stitch it up, maybe more. It might have sliced tendons. "Okay… who's up for ordering in pizza?"

 

Steve grimaced at Wilson's weakened humor. He hadn't said anything since Bucky re-reverted. He was hurting. Natasha pushed her hair out of her eyes and made a plan. The spoiled food needed to be cleared away and something found to replace it. Wilson needed medical attention. Bucky needed time to process what had happened, possibly also a bit of first aid, and Steve needed a therapist. First thing was first: she had to take care of Wilson's foot.

 

"Steve, I need to get Wilson taken care of here, and that food needs to be dumped. Can you help Barnes clean up his shoulder then get rid of that?" Natasha pointed to the crime scene. "I'm going to take him to the bathroom, to wash it up."

 

Steve nodded, assuming Bucky's reticence. But he was silent only because it was a ruckus in his head and he wasn't sure if he could filter that out into intelligible words. It had all happened so quickly, and seemed so innocuous to begin with. He'd only sneezed. But then the world had clattered apart. All that work and progress had been threatening to overturn.

 

Albeit, Steve could have lived with Buck reverting to where he did, as painful as the terror and guilt in his eyes had been. He would have been his old self. That was there, muttering in his thoughts, and made him feel guilty. He accepted Bucky as he was now, would always accept him. And right at that moment, he needed that acceptance. Buck looked so tormented. Steve was glad he hadn't opened his mouth, in case those mutterings had been voiced and crushed Bucky, ruined their reviving friendship.

 

The hair had come loose around his face when Steve shook him. As he sat, Bucky looked close to how he had in the containment cell, ragged, crumped. The bloody towel over his shoulder helped none. Steve took a steadying breath and then sat down beside him. Bucky only flinched a little when touched. He heaved a heavy sigh and then pushed Steve's hand away, sitting up to pull his shirt off. The cut was deep, or had been. It had already stopped bleeding. Steve set aside the towel, now ruined. They burned through things quickly here. A bit of alcohol and a gauze patch would do, so another shirt wouldn't be ruined by abrasion bleeding.

 

Bucky's eyes were dull and tired when Steve stood again. He watched as supplies were gathered, but the intensity had gone from him. That left Steve's chest tight. The ruined shirt fell across his hands, Bucky's right hand rubbing the fabric slowly between his fingers. His mouth worked for a few moments when Steve sat back down, but nothing came of it.

 

"Are you okay, Bucky? Really? What's eating you?"

 

Buck grimaced, looked at the shirt in his hands. "I'm a hazard."

 

"No. No, you're not. It was a simple accident. Happens all the time."

 

The metal arm realigned and whirred quietly as Steve wiped down the gash. Bucky tilted his head back and forth as if weighing his responses. "Remember earlier?"

 

"Yes…"

 

"About lying?"

 

Steve felt his whole body drop a few inches. "I'm not lying, Buck. That was really an accident. And you're not a hazard. Anymore." He laid a hand over his own chest. "We know what we're doing, what kind of situation we're dealing with and it's not a hazardous one. It's a delicate one, sure, but it's not our safety we're tiptoeing for, it's your wellbeing." Bucky turned to look Steve in the eyes. At least the emptiness was gone again. He looked like a child, insecure and unsure. Steve held his gaze as best he could while finishing with the gauze. "If we considered you a hazard, if you _were_ a hazard, you'd still be back in a detention room. Promise. Things are a little touch and go sometimes, but you're _so_ much better, Bucky. You're figuring things out. Who you are, what kind of man you want to be. This was just a blip, and we're all okay after it. That is, if _you're_ okay. Are you okay, Bucky?"

 

His face twitched as he looked at Steve. A deep exhale and Bucky had put that sullen face back on, pushed away all those vulnerabilities. It was surreal, watching him change modes like that, like switching gears. The whole atmosphere was compounded by the fact that Wilson's music was still playing through the whole event. Now it had on an upbeat, popular music number. It jarred so violently with Buck's moods.

 

He looked Steve over, sat up straighter, and then nodded. "Stop worrying, Steve." When Steve didn't stop worrying, Bucky stood and strode towards the back.

 

"Where are you going?"

 

He held up the ruined shirt in his right hand. "Shirt." A wolf-whistle came from the bathroom as Buck passed – Sam, no doubt – and then he reappeared pulling a new shirt over his head. Pausing beside Steve, he pulled his hair back again and then stared at him, waiting.

 

"Oh, right. Cleaning up." Steve stood back up, keeping an eye on his friend, but trying to focus on something else. The food for starters. It was a mess. The neat little piles of celery, grapes and pickles were flecked with red-brown droplets. The wooden cutting board below them had soaked in the blood and now showed a dull cherry stain. Beside him, Bucky sucked air between his teeth. He was wincing.

 

"I'm all thumbs," he muttered and Steve barked out a laugh.

 

"You are, aren't you?"

 

Bucky gave him a gentle look and quirked an eyebrow. "I'm usually so good with knives." Steve laughed again.

 

"I remember. Must have been one hell of a sneeze."

 

"Mm." He nodded and then gathered up the cutting board disaster, taking it towards the trashcan. He gazed closely at the food as it tumbled into the can.

 

Steve set about wiping up the rest of the accident, cleaning the counter, washing the knife. Bucky had leveled out, so he relaxed some too. He didn't notice then, when the knife was slipped from the drain board. It was only the grating sound of cutting that drew his attention. For a second, Steve's whole body went cold. His first thought to explain the noise was metal on metal, like Bucky was trying to amputate his arm. But, when he turned, Steve saw Bucky reaching behind him, elbow pistoning behind his head.

 

"What–what…" He only watched, mouth open as Bucky finished sawing away. Only when he dropped the knife and the stub of his ponytail on the counter with it, did Steve finish his question. "What are you doing?"

 

Bucky pushed the now-free hair behind his ears and frowned at Steve. "Cutting my hair. Obviously."

 

"Why?"

 

"I was tired of it," he answered and ran his hand back and through his hair again. "This is better."

 

For having been done with a butcher's knife and blind, Buck's hair looked pretty decent. There were some jagged parts, and it was still much longer than he'd used to keep it, but Steve thought it to be an improvement. "O–okay. And… you used a knife…"

 

"It was there. I made the decision. I acted on the decision with what was there. The knife." He squinted at Steve like he was the one being irrational. "That is what you want me to do. Make decisions on my own. Isn't it?"

Steve searched for a response, but he was worn too thin for words. Instead, he laughed again, deep from his belly, until he couldn't see for the tears in his eyes. He wiped them away and then, without really thinking about it, pulled Bucky into a hug. It was a good hug, ending with a solid thump on his back that rang a little from Steve's fingertip hitting the metal shoulder. Bucky just stood there, frozen from the contact. When Steve stepped back, he stared at him like he'd grown a second head, but Steve was unfazed. He patted his shoulder one more time for good measure and then turned away to finish cleaning up.

 

"You cut your hair with a butcher's knife. Aw, that's good. Why not?" He chuckled, a little hysterically and began washing the cutting board. "I'm glad you're making your own decisions now, Buck. Real glad."

 

"Why are you laughing?"

 

"No reason, Buck. No reason. I'm worn out and a little out of sorts. And a little astounded you did that."

 

"Was it unusual?"

 

"Uh… a little. You could've asked for scissors."

 

Bucky sniffed and then shrugged. He paced behind Steve as he finished washing the cutting board. As Steve was turning back, Bucky was throwing away his hair. The two of them sat down at the table and waited for Natasha and Sam to return. Steve seriously considered ordering pizza without them. He was hungry, but just as he was about to get up and ask if they minded, a gasp heralded their return.

 

Sam was gawking at the hack job Bucky had made of his hair. Natasha looked mildly startled. Even limping, Sam made good time hobbling to Bucky and around him. "What the fuck happened to your hair, Buck?"

 

"I cut it."

 

"He cut it. With a butcher knife," Steve further explained. Natasha was smiling as she sat down. It looked for a second like she was going to ruffle Bucky's work but she pulled the laptop to herself instead.

 

"A butcher knife. I can see that." Sam scoffed as he sat down.

 

"Why is shock everyone's reaction?" Bucky was glaring around them now, unamused at their amusement.

 

"Well, you'd been so attached to your hair."

 

Steve grinned at Sam then shook his head. No more sugarcoating. "Really, Bucky, cutting your own hair with a knife is generally unorthodox."

 

"Unless you're Mulan."

 

Sam was feeling better. That was a good joke, even if nobody laughed at it. Not openly. Nat had covered hers by clearing her throat. She'd done a damn good job fixing Sam up. Thankfully, the knife had only grazed bone. It was a clean stab through flesh, but Sam would be able to walk on it with proper wrapping the next day. She'd sewed him up and disinfected him more gently than he would have expected from her. Now, he really was feeling better. Good enough to be hungry. Really hungry. He nodded avidly when she brought up pizza again. So did the other two.

 

"I can help you clean up the ends if you want, Barnes," Nat offered once the pizzas were ordered. Buck touched his hair, almost defensively, and considered her. "It looks good, a good length for you. Just a little straightening of the edges will help it look more refined," she clarified.

 

He looked at Steve, then Sam, then at his hands. Out of nowhere he stood and marched out of the living room. They heard a snort from the bathroom and he reappeared rolling his eyes. "You are all liars."

 

"What?"

 

"It looks horrible."

 

"No, no, it doesn't. The length is good, like I said, it just needs cleaning up. Right?" Nat looked to them for support.

 

"Yes. Absolutely."

 

"Yeah, way better than your gimpy ponytail." Steve nudged Sam in the ribs, but it was true. Way better.

 

The next, way too long forty-five minutes passed with light banter and more laughter than the group of them had heard in almost a week. Only Buck remained straight-faced but he did roll his eyes or shake his head a few times, which Sam took to be like him laughing. Part the way through, growing impatient waiting for the food, Nat grabbed some scissors and started cleaning up Buck's hair there and then. By the time she was done it looked much better. She dipped his fingers with a glob of product and then helped him slick it out of his face. Steve was smiling by the end of it. Nat then went around and snapped a photograph of each of them in front of a screen she pulled out of nowhere. She was tinkering with them on the computer after that.

 

A few minutes later, the door was buzzing. Buck insisted on getting it. In as few words as possible, of course. The rest of them sat back and watched, pride, caution, and amusement arrayed among them. The pizza guy left a little ruffled by Buck's brusqueness, but he got his tip and they got all four of their pizzas. They demolished those in record time. Sam ate more pizza than he'd ever thought himself capable. It was probably from the blood loss. Steve and Buck meanwhile put it away like pros, though where he didn't know. That super-soldier metabolism was on their side. Nat ate too, of course, with more decorum than the rest of them, and multitasking as she did. There was hardly any conversation, so immersed in eating they were.

 

Maybe things _could_ level out.

 


	9. SECURITY and STABILITY pt. 4

Soon, it was time to move on in Nat's agenda.

 

One-thirty meant it was time to meet the fire chief. She briefed them as the last few pieces of pizza were inhaled and then as they got their disguises in order: Steve his holomask, Buck his glove. Sam and Nat just had to show up and act their parts. It would be easy. They were veterans and fresh back, looking for work. Not much there to act, as long as they called each other their cover names it would be effortless.

 

"Remember: Kat, Hal, Dwayne and James, that's who we are." She announced one last time as they milled by the front door. "And the Chief's name is Perry Whitman, but he goes by Chief. Everyone stay low key and polite, we'll be fine. I've already warned him that you're suffering from some PTS, _James_ , but please try to communicate verbally if he speaks to you."

 

"I will," Buck assured her feet.

 

"And make eye contact. Please."

 

He tried again, eyes somehow boldly sheepish looking into hers. "I will."

 

"Great. And here are your IDs, in case for some reason we need them." She handed out the cards she'd finished while eating. "Use 'em to remember your names if you have to. Okay. Ready?" They all nodded and she set out down the hall to a set of rear stairs they hadn't used before. They were still hobbit-sized, though, and everyone but Nat had to duck down to climb down them. They didn't spit them out outside like the front stairs; these lead to a basement as Nat informed them. Once down there, it became clear that this would be an excellent sanctuary of sorts. They walked from their basement, with water heaters and storage spaces, through a corridor of punching bag lined walls that led them out into what must have been the firehouse basement. It was a huge cavern with a full boxing ring in its center and surrounded by weights and machines. It was an underground gym/haven. They'd be spending a ton of time down here.

 

"Best part is that hardly anyone uses it anymore, or so the Chief made it seem." Nat walked among the machines, wiping her finger along one. It came away with a film of dust. "I'd say he was right. No disguises needed down here, guys."

 

The other end of the basement complex led up a graciously larger flight of stairs and into the firehouse proper. It was a creaky old building, full of brick and exposed wood beams, plaques and photographs. It smelled just like how Sam would have expected a firehouse to smell, like coffee, burnt food, and a bit of stale cologne. He liked it immediately. It had character. And the fire pole.

 

"I'm gonna slide down it." Sam looked immediately for a flight of stairs, but Nat grabbed his arm.

 

"Maybe another time, D." She spoke is a strange southern drawl. He had to actively hide his surprise. Steve frowned at it and Buck's eyes shifted to her, but they all did a good job otherwise of concealing their reactions.

 

"Okay. That was something you could've maybe warned us about." The accent, not the pole, though he didn't think she had any question as to which he meant. Nat rolled her eyes.

 

They walked in silence through the rest of the ground floor of the house, up to the front office. It was a narrow path towards the front, where the engine's garage took up a huge block of space. Suits and hoses and other equipment hung on its walls and brought with them the charred smells of plastic. Sam wondered where the coffee was wafting from. They hadn't seen it in the rear where the tables and benches were. It's smell gave it away as Nat knocked on the office's window with its old style gold and white lettering and slatted blinds. Of course, it was in there. If he were the chief, Sam'd keep the coffee pot in his office too.

 

The man who answered the door looked like a bull. An exceptionally fat bull. He had hair in his nose and ears and none on his head. It shone like the moon and was just as round as it, and the man's stomach. Nat smiled a crazy wide smile and held out her hand, letting it getting swallowed by the Chief's massive Michelin man one.

 

"Chief, this is Hal, D, and James." She pointed to Steve, Sam and Buck in turn. "Guys, this is the Chief. Introductions." She spoke so slow and sweet, everyone on their side was speechless for a moment. That was alright, though because the chief bull-man had plenty to say, and loudly.

 

"Hey! Guys! So, glad to meet you. We're starving for hands and you are just the sort we've been needing!" He couldn't have been louder on a bullhorn. That giant torso of his must have acted like a natural amplifier. "And just off duty too. We're always proud to support our veterans and what better way to use your strength and discipline than to continue saving people at home! Welcome, welcome! I should warn you all, though, we don't do much _saving_ these days. God be good, fires are few and far between here. We do help with the old folks and carbon monoxide and, son of a bitch, if I didn't save a cat from a tree last spring! HA!" He laughed just as loudly as he spoke and Sam was nearly knocked backwards with the force of it.  
 

Nat smiled primly through the speech, but stepped in as he boomed his laughter again. "Say, Chief, is there any way, you think, we could get a smidge of a rundown about duties while we're here. And, oh, the gym schedule."

 

The Chief waved them inside and hunched over to rustle in his desk. "Oh, that old pit? No schedule on it anymore. The boys have their campus equipment and, as you can tell, _I_ don't use it!" He smacked his paunch and laughed again. "It's all yours."

 

Nat's eyes twinkled as she looked back at them. "Superb, Chief, we sure appreciate it. These guys like their workouts."

 

"I can see that!" Laughter was becoming the only thing they heard out of the old man. "Whoo! Big boys! They make 'em bigger than in my day. Though you'd never guess by the size of me now, I was once like you boys, an athlete! Ho-ho! Anyways, basic thing we need from you is your time. Like I said before, we don't get many calls but we do have to stay on-call, in case we do. Sixteen hour shifts a piece is hard going, you need to be able to relax now and again and my boys need to go to their classes and do their homework and such. After you all settle in this week, we'll divide up the shifts, twelve hours on, twelve hours off. Much more reasonable. You can piddle-fart all you want during your shift as long as you're in your apartment to hear a call."

 

"And if we get a call?" Steve's voice seemed to startle the Chief.

 

"You do talk! Alright! Well, as for all that, there is procedure, but it doesn't require training much. Just a bit of reading and then some practice on the dummies and the course out back. You can do that whenever it suits you. I won't be testing you. I trust army boys, and girl, like yourselves know how to handle emergency situations and, if you don't, you know discipline and that's all this job really needs. Besides, you have questions, I'm right here!" He smacked the big wooden desk and then held out a stack of books. "Now, here're your manuals and, if there aren't any other questions from you, I'll go ahead and give you the tour."

 

Sam didn't really want to ask anything in close quarters that might elicit that deafening laugh again and Buck certainly didn't have anything say. He seemed paralyzed by the sheer volume of the chief's voice. That or the size of him baffled Buck. He was staring at the man's gut like he expected it to attack. So, at a grin from Nat they headed out and up the stairs.

 

"You've already seen the basement and walked through most of the main floor, so we'll start in the attic. Up here's where me and the boys live. Our rooms take up most of the floor, but there is a bath hall up here, if you all get back from some freak fire and want to wash the smoke off of yourselves." He pointed past a line of doors at the end of the hall. "That's down there. There're also some temporary bunks, though you won't need those, and a med station. And then the pole, of course." He stopped at the big silver fire pole off in a cubby of its own and patted it fondly. "I haven't fit down it in nearly a decade, but you would. Any of you wanna try it? Huh?" He looked around like he knew the answers.

 

Sam couldn't help himself. "Hell yeah!"

 

"There he is! There's always one. You can speak too. Go on, son, give it a go!" He smacked Sam's shoulder with a big hammy palm and shoved him towards it. Sam wrapped around it and, with one big overexcited grin back at the gang, went squeaking down the pole. It was an unpleasant feeling against his skin and Sam had completely forgotten about his foot with all its padding and his gusto, but he pulled off a nonchalant landing. Thankfully, he had time to limp it out before the chief joined him. To his surprise, Buck landed with a thunk beside him as he was pacing around.

 

"Got a taste for adventure?"

 

Buck wrinkled his nose and shook his head. "I just wanted away from his voice." He held out an arm to Sam and helped him with his limp. Sam was more than pleasantly surprised.

 

"Oh, he's not so bad."

 

"No, he's good-natured enough. Just very loud. And large." Buck didn't dig the boisterousness apparently.

 

"Did he smack you too?"

 

"No. I evaded."

 

Sam snorted. "Probably for the best." Just then they heard the clatter on the stairs and shuffled back towards the front of the house.

 

"Engine's in there," Chief was saying, pointing to the garage door. "Come on, I'll show you the old beast. Any of you have a class C license?" Nat raised her hand. "Great! She drives just like a big rig. Hose there, tank there. Ladder on top. Pretty basic." He swept around the truck, pointing to various appliances and utilities and then herded them back out of the garage. "The rest of the house you've seen. The rear is the mess and seconds as dummy training section. The yard has the course and the basement has the gym. Any questions?" He looked around the four of them, face red from all the exertion but smiling nonetheless. When nobody answered he nodded ponderously and held out his hand, shaking theirs each in turn. "Alright! Good to meet all of you. Whoo, quite a grip. I'll send 'round your schedule in three days. Sound good? Great! Welcome aboard!" He gave them one more booming laugh and then strode back to his office, leaving them with the smell of coffee, four well used handbooks, and a ringing in their ears.

 

"Right," Nat drawled. "Back to the apartment, guys." When they were back down in the basement she turned around and walked backwards in front of them. "So? What did you think?"

 

"I thought that accent was a crime," Sam snarked.

 

"You could've told us about it, at least. It was… unexpected." Steve was more diplomatic, as usual.

 

"Maybe. Kat is from Alabama. I had to make it convincing. Besides that, comments? Concerns? Anything?... Barnes?"

 

He looked up and shrugged his good shoulder.

 

"Oh, come on. He was better than the other people you've met, right?"

 

Steve watched for Buck's reaction and announced, "I liked him," when no response came. "Good, blue collar man. He's got a bit of a big… personality, but there's nothing wrong with that."

 

Buck nodded eventually. "He's not the delivery men."

 

"Exactly. And he's being very generous putting us up here. And the gym, right?" Nat waved around as they passed the ring. "Not bad. Not bad. I'm pleased."

 

"Yeah, you did a good job, Nat, " Sam said, earning a grin.

 

"Thank you, Wilson."

 

"Speaking of the gym," Steve interrupted. "I think I might want to break it in. I could use a session with the bags."

 

"Well, that works just perfectly. A second workout is scheduled for right now. Wraps are in the bathroom."

 

"I'll join." Sam rolled his shoulders and started stretching his arms. "I could do some weight training. Buck?"

 

He nodded and Steve beamed behind him. Nat left them to it, staying in the apartment 'doing stuff' as she explained it. She already had her phone out as they headed down the stairs again all changed and geared up. This Clint Barton was getting another earful, it seemed.

 

Steve was at home in that basement. Hardly anything had been so clear to Sam since he met him. The canvas, the bags. Boxing was part of who he was and he was almost reverent towards it, maybe for that reason. What was more interesting though was how he kept sneaking checks of Buck's face. Sam had a prime view of it, over by the weight racks. Buck wasn't really participating. He walked around the hall and the bigger gym space, looking at everything, handling most of it, but not really using it. Steve, meanwhile, was peppering the bag with combos to crush grown men and threatening to spill the sand. The whole time, though, he kept his stance angled to Buck. When the ropes flapped back together and they looked up to find Buck standing in the ring, Steve finally stopped. They both did, and watched the event happening on Buck's face.

 

He paced the edge slowly, flesh hand on the ropes and eyes on the mat. Once that was circled one time, he stepped inwards and seemed to square up to an invisible opponent. He didn't swing or move much at all. He just stood here, feet spread, staring in front of him. He was mumbling something. The look on his face was so distant, Sam figured he was reliving some memory. Backing into a corner, Buck then dropped into a squat and pouted at the mat. He looked like he was on the edge of tears.

 

At that point, Steve couldn't take it anymore. He put in his bravest face and shouted towards the ring. "Hey, Bucky! Why don't you come over here and I'll hold the bag for you while you try it out. Just 'til you remember how to handle one."

 

Buck stood immediately, a look of shame on his face like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. He must've figured they weren't spying on him for once. He nodded and slipped between the ropes to join Steve at the bag. Hand wrapped and glove off, Buck soon returned the dull thud of beaten sand to the basement. He had solid moves too, much like Steve's combos. After a few minutes, Steve retreated to a second bag and the basement grew even louder with impacts. Buck was the first to split his bag. The sand pooled around his feet and left him looking murderous.

 

"It's alright. I do it all the time. You just can't ever really let go. Every punch needs to be pulled a bit." Steve hung a new bag from the stack against the wall and patted Buck's arm. "Don't worry about it."

 

The afternoon kept on that way until Sam was worn out and had to admit defeat. They still hadn't come back upstairs even after he'd climbed from the shower. They reappeared, Steve laughing, as Nat was redressing Sam's foot.

 

"Enjoy yourselves, guys?" Natasha asked, antibiotic cream cap in the corner of her mouth. They certainly looked like they had. For fuck's sake, Bucky was practically smiling. When he wasn't frowning his eyes were much bigger, brighter and bluer.

 

"I think so," Steve answered, looking to Bucky for confirmation. He nodded. "We both know our way around a bag. It's good to remember that."

 

"Mmm, maybe one of these days you two could spar," Natasha suggested, partially joking. That wakened the terror in Bucky's eyes. "If you're comfortable with that," she added for good measure and Bucky relaxed.

 

"Well, Bucky taught me to box all those years ago. I bet it would be a pretty even match."

 

"Or the clash of the titans," Sam joked. "I'd pay to see that." Bucky looked even more frazzled somehow. Natasha decided to change the subject.

 

"Well, Steve, you and Sam are off the hook for an hour or so. You could go back if you wanted, but Barnes I need you to stay here with me. I'm going to teach you how to use this cell phone." She pulled out the one Clint had dropped off an hour or so before. "This way, when you get around to going places on your own, you can contact us. Also, I set you up some music stations on here."

 

The mention of music stations drew a flash of interest and Bucky sat across from her immediately. The staring commenced then. Steve made some excuse to stay in the living room. Natasha knew he wanted to supervise. Wilson, on the other hand, took the van keys and announced he was going to buy some stuff, asking for odds and ends people needed. With a fresh list, he left the apartment singing to himself. Bucky was still staring at Natasha, having moved not a millimeter. If Natasha had been any less the intractable, self-confident person she was, that stare would have unnerved her. As it was though, she found it more an intriguing challenge. She took a second to appraise him and then decided it wasn't real provocation, it was just how Bucky was coming to express interest, which was unfortunate. They'd have to work on that. Eye contact wasn't the only ingredient in body language. He needed to relearn how to use his face and all the rest to communicate more subtly, not just to follow orders.

 

She smiled softly, in case he was still learning by mimicking, and then switched chairs to the one next to his. He didn't move out of his chair, or even lean away from her, but she could feel him poising to escape if she got too close. She thought about experimenting with that response, but decided otherwise. Steve would probably have an aneurysm and there was no real point in setting Bucky's progress with trusting people back any further. Instead, she angled her chair toward him and set the phone on the table between them. Bucky blinked at the sound of the chair leg's echoing scrapes and almost regarded her with some gratefulness. She'd made the right choice.

 

"Okay, Barnes, you've got experience with tech. I've seen you use some pretty advanced systems on assignment, so I know you'll do fine with this. It's really simple." Natasha turned on the phone with the power button. "That button turns it on and off and allows for a few other operations functions if you hold it down. You can play with that on your own later. The screen is touch activated. You'll only be able to use your right hand on it, though. That's how you initialize all of its other functions. You just tap on what you want…" she pressed the phone icon, "and it brings up that operation. Phone numbers have an extra three digits now, an area code, but that shouldn't give you any trouble. You used the internet on the laptop, it’s the same here. You uses your finger like the mouse and type on the screen's keyboard." She pulled up the browser and demonstrated, and then turned to gauge his reaction.

 

Bucky was listening with rapt attention, having leaned in close enough to have breached his five inch separation barrier between them. Over his shoulder, Steve was watching like a momma bear. When Natasha didn't continue, Bucky looked up and searched her face. He raised his brow a little, lips parted just a fraction of an inch and then looked back at the phone. He wanted her to continue. She wondered where he'd picked up that gesture.

 

"So, that's the internet browser and phone feature. There are a bunch of other things it can do, as you can see with all these application icons. I'm guessing you want me to show you the music application first." He met her eye with an expression that almost screamed 'obviously'. It was then she realized that he was using her own facial language on her, expressions she'd made in the past few days without thinking about it. Finally, something unnerved her. She steeled her face, watching his fall blank as well, and then tapped on the internet radio app. "I haven't purchased any songs for you, but this program allows you to listen to a radio station of sorts organized by a type of music. These here are the stations, determined by a particular song or band or genre. I set these up for you by what you liked from Wilson's selection earlier."

 

Natasha opened the first station and a grungy contemporary melody swelled up out of the phone's little speakers. Bucky waited, listening attentively until the lyrics started up. He sat through about three lines of jaded-on-modernity rhymes and then stood up, taking the phone with him.  Behind them, Steve was on red alert, but Natasha stayed seated. She knew what he was doing. Bucky stopped at the little phone dock on the kitchen counter that Wilson had used that afternoon and stared at it, then his phone. He docked it without a problem and even powered up the dock itself when the music didn't start right away. He stood back, head tilted to the side, almost looking pleased with himself as the music took on a more rounded-out sound on the full speakers. He stayed there, staring at the phone for the duration of the song, seemingly entranced by the lyrics. After it ended, he nodded firmly and retrieved the phone, turning off the music and the dock. He handled the phone itself for a moment and then switched it off.

 

"Thank you, Natasha," he said softly and then marched over to sit next to Steve on the couch.

 

"You're welcome…" she watched him go, impressed. He was so unpredictable. It was beginning to infuriate and fascinate her. How was he operating in there? What was driving him? She couldn't say, or predict, and it was all very new. She kind of liked it. Meanwhile, the sheer luminosity of Steve's excited smile was burning a hole in the side of her face. She returned his smile even though her mind was elsewhere. She needed to keep her shit locked down, at least for a while. Trusting Steve was one thing, but Bucky was a whole different situation. Until it was certain that he was not a threat, enigmaticness was her best bet. She would not get caught exposed. Her job was to see, not be seen. Or it had been.

 

Natasha pushed her fingers through her hair. The black curls fell slowly back around her face and she felt recomposed. Back to business. While those two did whatever it was they were doing, sitting there silently on the couch, Natasha decided to read over the firefighter manual in preparation for their next task on her agenda: procedural review. She had no idea if they would all read the handbook as instructed, though she couldn't fathom why any of them wouldn't, but she wanted to be prepared to brief them on it in case. About five pages into the manual, music started up again from the couch and then migrated with Bucky's sock-muted footsteps up to the big front windows. He was seated on the bay bench when Natasha looked up from finishing that chapter and Steve had joined her at the table. He was reading the manual as well, a pencil out underlining certain sections. A smile fought to break her façade against her will. Steve was so much more than his reputation made him out to be. He was letting her in on that more and more.

 

As the music switched to a different artist, Natasha decided now was a good time to therapize Steve, or at least ask him how he was doing. Steve folded the handbook around his pencil before answering.

 

"It's been a bumpy day. This morning, after the furniture delivery was especially rough." His eyes danced away to Bucky in the front. He was gazing out the window, still and calm. "But we pushed through, well I think. And… I dealt with my issues."

 

"Your issues?"

 

Steve smiled at the table. "I lost sight of myself for a little while."

 

Natasha knew what he meant. You didn't always need an opponent to be beaten. "This kind of situation can take its toll. Don't be too hard on yourself because of that."

 

"I won't. I set myself straight. My expectations. And it's all been uphill from there."

 

"Uphill as in improvement or uphill as in a struggle?"

 

He chuckled and flicked his brow up at her. "Both." Taking out his pencil again, Steve smoothed out his handbook and gave her one more smile. "Thanks, Natasha."

 

"For what?"

 

"Does it need saying?" No. It didn't. She let him have a genuine smile and then pushed her hair behind her ears.

 

"Of course, Steve. Of course." She would help him with anything. Without hesitation now. He was a friend.

 

Back up at the window the song changed again and Bucky shifted to the opposite end of the bench. He swept his hair off his face and the metal arm whirred as he rolled his injured shoulder. Natasha allowed herself to observe him unheeded for another minute. That didn't happen often. Obviously, Bucky didn't _not_ notice much. He reminded her of a surly housecat, up there in the mid afternoon sunlight, staring out at the world. As clouds passed and the rays of sun flashed in and out, his metal fingers would catch the light, winking brightly. So would his hair. It looked much healthier this way, he looked much healthier and kempt this way, but Natasha missed the tiny ponytail a little. She didn't know why.

 

After a while she realized that she was staring, quite like was his habit, and that Steve had noticed. She watched for a few more minutes, so as not to appear like she'd been caught in some embarrassing act, and then returned to her handbook.

 

"Sam Wilson is back," Bucky announced just loud enough to be heard over his music.

 

Natasha marked her place, part of the way through the third chapter, and headed for the door.  "I'll help him unload," she answered and then disappeared through the door. He was just in time, it was three minutes 'til handbook review time. He was opening the rear of the van when Natasha made it out to the drive. "Need some help?"

 

"Nah, but I'll take it. Here. We got new towels. I picked red, just for good measure. Also got us a full, and I mean _full_ first aid kit. In case of more… sneezes. And then a few other things."

 

"Any problems?" She asked, accepting the bags of towels.

 

"No. Not problems per se. There are some _crazy_ people in this town, though." He loaded the rest of the bags on his arm and shut the van doors.

 

"Crazy? What do you mean?" Natasha was suddenly on high alert, scoping their perimeter, checking for eyes and ears. "You weren't followed were you," she added in a whisper.

 

"Oh, no, no, no. Not that kind of crazy. I don't think they stalked me home. Half of them were swarming for this football game, which I get to an extent. I liked college football for a while. But this is a tiny school and they were ferocious. I nearly got stampeded. But there was this one girl, she had the crazy eyes. I don't think she recognized me from the news. I think she was just likin' what she saw." He tossed a wolfish grin over his shoulder and then led the way back upstairs. "The other half were rabid for girl scout cookies. It's a good thing I didn't try to buy any outside the store. They'd have torn my face off for it."

 

Natasha snorted. Wilson had a flare for the dramatic. Nothing she wasn't used to. She'd dealt with Stark for years, hadn't she? And he made Wilson look like a monk. They burst into the apartment with the energy only Wilson could bring, him whooping as he did.

 

"Hey-o, somebody digs music now! Buck! Nice. Is that Imagine Dragons, though? Don't worry I'm not here to judge. Come here." He bee lined for Bucky at the window as Natasha dropped her bags off at the table. He flopped down on the window bench and began rifling through one of his sacks. Bucky merely watched and waited. "Ah, here they are. A gift… for you." Wilson pulled out a pair of full-sized headphones and handed them over to Bucky.

 

They turned over and over in Bucky's hands, a finger running over the leather around the ear pieces, the cloth and metal of the band. He finally laid them down on his knee. "Thank you, Sam Wilson."

 

"Sam. Just… just Sam will work, man. Just Sam. Anyway, this way you can listen to music whenever or wherever you want. And… uh, keep it to yourself. Here," he took the headphone jack and plugged it into Bucky's phone, silencing the music except for a tinny little noise coming from the headphones themselves. "Go on, put 'em on."

 

Bucky did as instructed and they couldn't get him to take the damn headphones off for three hours. Not at her insistence, not at Sam's, not even at Steve's. He would look at them, watching their lips move, and then look away when they stopped. The miming didn't work either, only received more blinking. He did, however, accept his manual and began reading through it when Natasha handed it to him. So, they left him up there in front of the window to read his manual alone. Every once in a while, Natasha caught him glancing back at them, or lifting on earpiece to listen for a moment. No doubt he was checking to make sure they didn't leave him.

 

Steve continued his study time quietly, occasionally thumping his pencil or looking up to sigh in Bucky's direction. Wilson, on the other hand, was not so silently studious. He did his reading, but he was apparently capable of reading and talking at the same time. And he had plenty to say about the manual. After a stretch, Natasha envied Bucky his headphones.

 

"…I mean, is this really necessary? This all seems like common sense to me. Who doesn't know that you have to turn the water on before you spray the hose? That's… that's just… if you don't know that you should not be entrusted to protect people. That's all I'm saying."

 

"Wilson… please, just read it."

 

"It's like that moronic disclaimer they now have to put on coffee lids at McDonalds. Seriously, if you didn't know you could burn yourself with hot coffee, maybe you shouldn't be out… to inflict yourself on the public. Hell, Buck would have known that before he knew his own damn name."

 

"Maybe if you read quietly this would all be over faster," Steve commented without looking up from his page. He was almost half way through.

 

"I'm reading it. I'm reading it, yes. But is it timed? Is there going to be a quiz on this?"

 

"Yes, there will be a quiz at the end, Wilson." Natasha quipped and made a note in her little steno pad. Quite a few things were obvious in the book, but there were some details, equipment guides and procedural tips that she wanted to remember. Those she put down in her pad. Those would be the ones she 'quizzed' them on at random times over the next few days.

 

"Well, I sit extremely corrected. I will shut my happy ass up and read this like I'm studying to master the SAT. Again." He quirked a brow at Steve. "That's right. 1480 over here. That's why they gave me the cool suit. Right. Firefighting 101. Let's do this." He was quiet for the rest of their reading time, powering through almost half the handbook in double time, even humming and ohhing on occasion.

 

Eventually, Natasha called the study hour up, promising they'd continue after dinner. Wilson took that as his signal and started gearing up for his fish taco masterpieces. They left Bucky alone, not pushing that he help after the lunch fiasco.  When the fish hit the piping hot pan, the headphone finally came off, though, and he looked around like the last kid to be picked in gym class. A shuffling sound alerted Natasha to her shadow and she stepped aside to let Bucky take up her cilantro tearing duty. His handbook was left on the table, split open to what looked to be the last chapter. He'd almost finished, even with music blaring in his ears and his habit of gazing off out of the window.

 

Steve sidled up beside the two of them and Natasha stepped away to give them their space. He was tasked with the chopping for the chutney and Bucky eyed the knife with mistrust. She hopped up on the opposite counter and started eating avocado pieces. Until Sam snapped and pointed a warning finger at her. One more chunk popped in her mouth, Natasha simpered and began juicing limes as he'd asked her to do a moment before.

 

"Thanks for taking off the headphones and coming to join us, Bucky."

 

Natasha looked up to see how Bucky would react. He nodded, but didn't otherwise respond to Steve. The cilantro was being shredded like nobody's business.

 

"Uh… why… didn't– _did_ you take them off now."

 

The cilantro was spared a moment. "I smelled food…" He looked around at them with a tiny pout. "You didn't tell me you were making dinner."

 

"Well, you'd been ignoring us before and refusing to take the headphones off," Sam explained. "How could we tell you if you wouldn't listened? Hmm?" He couldn't have sounded more like a peevish grandmother if he'd tried. Bucky ducked his head at the scolding.

 

"Sorry."

 

"That's fine, Bucky. That's fine." Steve, ever the peacemaker, was content with that apology and ready to move on. He patted his friend on the back and handed him a cheese grater. "Only the cheese this time." Undaunted by the withering glare, he went back to chopping, humming something Natasha found vaguely familiar. Bucky joined in soon, a little off-key, but not aware of it. Sam was tapping his toe as he added another fillet to the pan.

 

The rest of the dinner preparation went peacefully, almost like they were actually the four, normal civilians they were pretending to be. The humming continued, light conversation popped up now and again. They all seemed to forget what had happened not a week before. HYDRA, S.H.I.E.L.D., Pierce, the helicarriers and even the Winter Soldier was set aside. Or Natasha forgot, and Sam and Steve acted like they had. There was less certainty with Bucky. He didn't talk enough for that surety with words or body, and the reserve he'd exhibited before continued like it was his resting state. Whatever he was feeling or thinking about was a secret, one, big, blank-faced secret. All the same, the broodiness was softened a touch. He wasn't actively frowning the whole time, eye contact was back in the game, and there was the humming.

 

Natasha wondered if he would ever smile again. That was yet to be seen. Although, if she'd been through what he had, she couldn't have even said for sure if that would be in her anymore. Barton smiled now. If that was something that applied as comparable she didn't know.

 

Thinking about Clint made her remember. Their little domestic fairytale was only a veil, a very thin, delicate veil. The rest of the world had come tumbling down around their ears, her ears. Steve might come to face that reality head-on when or if Bucky recovered, but right now he was in tunnel-vision mode. And Wilson, that wasn't his world. It was just passing scenery, for all it mattered to him, the world was safe and nothing had changed. The helicarriers were only a symptom, though. Natasha had been a part of the infection.

 

And there it was. The dark place. She'd found it again. Bucky wasn't the only one suffering from a crisis of self. Sure, his was more visceral, but Natasha was dealing with a horrible recalibration and all the while she had to keep up the appearance of being calm and in control. She had to take care of these guys. But she wasn't in control. Her mind was running a mile a minute and misfiring most of those times. Her skills, the ones she'd always relied on to save her and that made her the expert she was, were failing her more than she'd ever experience. She felt exposed. She felt lost. She had no idea who she was going to be from now on. She felt weak, and that made her skin crawl.

 

What she really wanted was to run and run and never look back. That was the old Natasha. She had Barton now. Barton and Steve and Nick, though he'd wounded her deeply with his recent choices. And Maria and Pepper, and for once in her life Natasha had support from other people, a few of whom weren't spies. She couldn't run from that.

 

"Natasha?" It was a small, muffled noise from her right. "Natasha?" Steve was hunched over a little, looking into her face with concern. "Nat, do you not want to eat?"

 

She looked around quickly. The whole kitchen was rearranged, food had been served and picked apart. Time had passed and things had happened and she'd missed it. She must have zoned out, fell into that pit more deeply than she thought. Steve wasn't the only one looking at her. Wilson had his head tilted to the side and the smile gone from his face. Bucky too. Bucky studied her with caution.

 

"Of course I want to eat! Don't let me keep you guys, though." She shooed them to the table and began making her own plate. That was inexcusable. They needed her support, Steve needed her support. She couldn't do that again. From then on out it would have to be constant distractions. If she kept busy, she kept her head above water.

 

Bucky unabashedly stared at Natasha for the rest of dinner. It didn't matter what she said, or what amount of light-heartedness spouted from the others, he watched her. Natasha made it not bother her. She made herself _not_ think about whether he had tasted blood and was waiting to attack or if he was on guard to stop an incident. It didn't matter. It didn't. The fish tacos were amazing. Steve was smiling again. No one was actively bleeding. Things were good. Things were good. Things were good.

 

When there was no more food on the countertop and the guys had cleared their plates to a sparkling degree, Natasha pulled out her phone and tapped on her randomizer. She and Steve ended up with kitchen duty, so they set about washing up the dishes and wiping down everything while Sam and Bucky picked up their reading. It didn't take very long to clean things up. Steve was precise and quick and Natasha lost herself in the manual purity of it. By the time they were finished, though, the sun was setting and Bucky had finished the handbook.

 

It was sitting beside him, closed and forgotten, as he gazed out the window. It had only just started, but this particular sunset promised to be spectacular. Natasha took her manual and sat down across from him. He didn't budge. She felt the urge to hug him again. She hugged herself instead, squeezing the insecurity into a little ball inside of her and putting it aside for later. Her eyes were reading the handbook before she registered her hands had opened it.

 

A floorboard creaked behind her and to her left and she looked back to find Steve staring out at the sunset as well. His rich medium caramel brown looked out of place just then, his face lit up and eyes light. Standing that way, with his arms crossed, he looked like the Captain, nothing could change that.

 

"I think," he began after clearing his throat, "that I'll go on another run."

 

Bucky stood immediately. "I'll join." He grabbed his phone without a moment's delay and went to stand by the front door.

 

Steve looked to Natasha then Wilson. "You two interested?"

 

"Dude, you're supposed to wait like an hour or something after eating to exercise. No, I'm out."

 

Natasha shook her head as well. "You two enjoy it."

 

"Alright. I have my phone."

 

Wilson took Bucky's seat as the door closed. He pretended for half a second to be reading before dog-earing his page and leaning towards Natasha. "Hey you. Yeah, distracted badass. What's goin' on?"

 

Natasha turned her page and answered without looking up. "Don't worry about it, Wilson. Just finish your reading, please."

 

"Hey, now." His voice had lost its frivolity. It took him a bit, but he finally found her eye too. "Really, what's going on in there? The lights were on but you were out of town earlier. Is there something you need to talk over?"

 

She gave him her reassuring smile. "Everything's normal."

 

"Come on, Natasha, even superheroes need help sometimes."

 

"So you _can_ be serious," she said, conceding defeat and setting aside the book. He turned all the way to face her and leaned on his knees.

 

"Yeah, I _can_ be serious. Usually there's enough serious around here without me, don't you think? I only let it out when it's needed. Like now. Is it super-secret spy trouble? Or… normal, human being trouble? Or both?"

 

Natasha tucked her hair behind her ears and then looked out the window. Her eyes would give her away just then. "I'd say a healthy portion of both." She could just see the exterior door opening and Steve's masked face emerging from behind it now. Bucky's hand glimmered a rusty orange under the end of his sleeve. He'd forgotten his glove in all his enthusiasm and she'd forgotten to remind him. It would be fine. Dusk would hide it for him. Hopefully.

 

"Well, I'm here if you wanna talk about," Sam said quietly beside her.

 

"Thanks, Sam," she replied just as quietly and watched her two wards jog out of sight.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The little, sleepy college town felt different in the evening. Steve couldn't believe it had only been about twelve hours earlier that he'd run through it the first time. The whole place seemed changed. Maybe that was with the long day he'd had. He was different from the man he had been that morning, with a different perspective. So was the man running beside him. After not changing for seventy years while the world morphed and evolved around them and eventually left them behind, it was appropriate that they were changing at double time, like they were making up for the delay.

 

Bucky even looked different from that morning. It was his hair mostly, but still. Steve would've been lying if he said Bucky's demeanor looked the same, but maybe that was just to him and his freshly-reinvigorated optimist's eyes.

 

Under the trees lining the street they were on the world was a prism of browns and oranges and cool greens. Above and ahead of them, where Bucky's eyes were locked, the sky rioted with more colors than Steve could name. The air still tasted warm. There was sunshine in it still and barbeque smoke and the woodiness of sunbaked trees. Off to their east, the school was a seething nest of cars and marble and people. Something was happening, some kind of campus event and most of the life in the area had either gravitated toward it or fled it. Besides the rumble from that, then, it was quiet where they were. Steve could hear their footfalls, just off beat with one another, pounding the pavement. Bucky's slow, steady breathing kept their time along with Steve's own. Every once in a while the arm would clink or whir.

 

It was so much quieter than times they'd run together in the past. Mostly because once they could actually run together it was into a war-zone. Those sort of blurred together. They had started silent and stealthy until the group was in position and then all hell broke loose. There were the pops of gunfire, harrowing zings of the HYDRA blasts, and the clash of metal on metal on skin. Then they were running together, bashing skulls and guns blazing. Bucky always made that face when he was focusing, the very one he was wearing now. With his lips pursed and pushed out, forehead dropped. It had helped him think, he'd claimed back then, and Steve had teased that he needed all the help he could get.

 

"What are you thinking about?" He asked through breaths as they rounded a corner and set off down another street to angle back towards the sunset. Bucky somehow made that face even more. "You're making your duck-looking face," Steve explained. "The one that helps you think, apparently."

 

He stopped thinking. "It does help." His eyes smiled and then he shoved Steve nearly across the street. "Like your teeth grinding."

 

As Steve was jogging back to his side, Bucky picked up the pace into a cold sprint, leaving Steve behind with a look that said 'race you.' Steve smiled and sped up, catching Bucky stride by stride. Soon they were neck and neck, pushing to outpace one another. They were at a dead heat for a good stretch and probably would kept on at their tie for miles if they hadn't passed a moving car at obvious super speed. They had to immediately swerve off the road and into the park to avoid being seen. Skidding to a stop on the grass and gravel they crouched behind the hedge until the sound of the car died away. Steve took off his mask and wiped the inside of it off on his shirt, fighting laughter.

 

Bucky stood back up and peered past the bushes. "Whoops," he deadpanned as he turned back around, smirking when Steve broke and doubled over in laughter.

 

"Whoops?"

 

He nodded. "We fucked up. Natasha will be mad." He was still smirking. Steve almost pinched himself.

 

"Oh, yeah, she will be. I expect she'll be very disappointed that we did that twice on the same day. It was a little reckless, could blow our cover."

 

"That's why I said 'whoops.'"

 

Steve laughed again and then shook his head, pulling his holomask back on. "Yeah. I heard. You sound really eaten up by it."

 

"Should I have reacted differently?" The dry sarcasm left Bucky's voice then. He sounded unsure again.

 

"No, it was fine. Natural. We probably shouldn't do that again, though." Steve ducked out of the park and made sure the coast was clear before jogging back out again. Bucky followed, both at a much slower pace.

 

"What's wrong with Natasha?" He wasn't making eye contact like just before in the park, but that was only because the sunrise was visible again.

 

"Oh, you noticed that, did you?" Bucky cut his eye over. "Yeah… I'm not completely sure. She plays her cards close to her chest. If I were to wager a guess, I'd say she's dealing with her life changing, very drastically."

 

"Because of HYDRA falling?"

 

"Yes, and the fact that it brought S.H.I.E.L.D. down with it. Working with Nick Fury had been what made Natasha feel like she was earning redemption. Learning your redemption comes at the cost of even more sins is… world-shattering. She's questioning everything she's thought was true for years now. I'd imagine you understand that."

 

"I do."

 

"We're all of us thrown out to sea in a way, trying to find a way to survive with our ships sunk. She has to find a new life and new rules just as much as you do. We, uh… we pulled the rug out from under ourselves too."

 

"But… you did the right thing." It almost wasn't a question. Bucky had his duck face on again when Steve glanced over.

 

"I believe we did, yes. Just to what extent it was the right thing idealistically and practically is yet to be seen. We may still have some cleaning up to do, but… and I think I speak for Natasha too when I say this, we're prepared to clean up our mess."

 

"You don't regret it."

 

Steve shook his head, hard. "No. We prevented a massacre and stole you back. On top of that, we exposed a nest of snakes that would have bitten us in the rear eventually. I'd say that tallies out, so I don't regret it."

 

"I'm glad you did it," Bucky said and then looked away.

 

That was the first time he had withdrawn on this run, Steve noted with bitter-sweetness. It was a pattern with him, being less and less guarded when it was just the two of them. Buck seemed to like to test out himself with Steve before doing the same with Natasha and Sam.

 

"I'm glad I did too." He paused, wondering if he should take advantage of this openness. Why not… "Hey, Buck? Why were you ignoring us earlier? When you were hiding in your headphones, did we do something wrong?"

 

He glanced at Steve with his mouth pursed inward now. In the old days, that would have meant he was annoyed. He answered all the same. "Since we're _sharing_ … I… like the music… with it drowning everything else out I can… I can listen just to what it's saying and… not… not think about myself." He focused on the darkening horizon as he answered, thinking over each piece of his answer so hard it looked painful. Then he added quietly, "also, I was feeling… petulant. So I ignored you." An apologetic glance was flashed in Steve's direction. "My moods are… unpredictable."

 

The sounds of a car approaching behind them caused Steve to pause. He made sure they were jogging at a reasonable pace and then waited until it passed. He knew the passengers couldn't hear them, but he still suspected Bucky would be tight-lipped with any sort of audience. "Alright, and besides that… how are you doing? How was your first day being a full-fledged human being?" He threw a smile Bucky's way to make sure he knew it wasn't a super weighted question, even though it was.

 

Bucky took a good long while to think that one over, eyes up and beyond. Eventually he drew a deep breath and said simply, "good."

 

"Uh… that's… that's great, Buck. Any chance you'd care to elaborate a little?"

 

"It was hard but good."

 

"Okay… _How_ was it good?"

 

More far off staring followed. Steve had to wait three blocks before he got a response. "I'm starting to feel things again. Real things that I can name and describe. For the most part. Sometimes explain. That's good." He nodded, happy with how he'd phrased that. "Even the… unpleasant feelings… it's all… good."

 

"That's great, Bucky. What are good feelings for you? What's unpleasant?"

 

He grimaced hard then, picking up his speed a little as he struggled with that question. Steve had to grab his elbow to slow him back down. It was possible to watch the whole process on his face, labored pout to searching blinking. Eventually, he shrugged. "It feels good to understand when I do. Confusing when I don't. And that… it makes me… something. Angry?"

 

"Frustrated?" Steve offered and earned a sharp nod.

 

"Frustrated. Yes… Talking–no, _expressing_ myself is… difficult."

 

"That's okay, you're doing a great job."

 

Bucky sighed, almost like a laugh. "I'm glad you're here, Steve. Everything feels… easier when you're around. The world… no… my mind doesn't spin as much."

 

"I'm glad I can help, Buck." 'Glad' didn't even begin to describe what he felt at that, but it would have to suffice.

 

"Yeah, I'm sure you are." Sarcasm again. It was music to Steve's ears.

 

"Hey, be nice."

 

"What's going to happen to me?" Bucky asked, suddenly morose again, and a little scared. "Even if I act like a civilian, I will always stick out. The arm, my… my past. I can't hide all of that forever. I'm not sure I deserve to. Steve?"

 

"Whoa. Whoa." Steve came to a dead stop and put his hand on Bucky's shoulder. He was breathing shallowly and quickly, like he was on the verge of hyperventilating. His moods were unpredictable for sure. "You're okay. Just breathe. Nothing to worry about. I'll find you a place to belong, Bucky, that you feel comfortable with. I promise. There are more like us, you know? Extraordinary people."

 

"The ones who were in New York?" His breathing was normal again, though his face still read anxious.

 

"Yeah. With them, all of your baggage will blend in. Just like mine does. You'll see." With some nodding and back patting the jog resumed again.

 

"Alright. As long as you're there too."

 

Steve scoffed. "I'm not leaving you again, Bucky. I learned that lesson."

 

"I don't want to be alone again," he said so quietly that Steve thought it wasn't meant to be heard.

 

He wouldn't ever have to be. Steve had meant it, he was never leaving Bucky again. Never.

 

* * *

 

When they got back to the apartment, spirits were significantly improved there as well. Bucky glanced around with blatant surprise on his face and Steve allowed himself to be a little shocked as well. Natasha and Sam were sat at the table with a pile of wooden blocks spread out in front of them and about eight empty beer bottles scattered around their perimeter. What was more: they were laughing.

 

"Hey! The Forrest Gump fan club returns! Come on over here! We're playing Jenga!" Sam kicked out his chair and finished off the rest of his beer, stopping at the fridge to pull out another four. "Come on, come on. It's family game night here at the superhero house. Time for good, clean, wholesome fun. If you can't tell already, we started without you, but from what I hear, that doesn't matter 'cause you two can't get drunk!" He pressed two bottles to their chests. His enthusiasm had reached a whole new high. Natasha was snickering into her bottle.

 

When Steve glanced back over to check on Bucky, he found all that vulnerability and openness gone. He was closed-off again with cautious eyes and hard jaw. Oh well. He'd at least enjoyed his friend's familiarity while it lasted. "Wanna try this game? Could be fun."

 

Clink, clink, clink. Bucky's left hand tapped on the bottle as he thought that over. After blinking at Steve a few times but not finding what he was looking for there, he shrugged and took a swig from the bottle. "Sure."

 

As it happened, the superhuman serum's effects did _not_ hold true as helpful in all things. Steve had found that over time and Bucky too was learning to regulate certain of its upgrades, but none of that translated over into game night. They were both stupendously horrible Jenga players. On top of that, the beer wasn't taking the edge off of their failures like it would have. Bucky did not find either of those things to his liking.

 

"Shit! Fuck! Goddamnit!" He spewed a fountain of curses under his breath every time the tower of blocks came tumbling down around his hands.

 

Sam and Natasha erupted into laughter, not helping the situation at all, but both were losing sight of that as a more and more alcohol was consumed.

 

"They're not laughing at you, Buck," Steve whispered as Bucky glowered over the heap of his destruction. It was the fourth time he'd been the one to topple it in a row.

 

"I know that!" He snapped back and pushed his hair off his forehead. Then he softened. "I know, Steve. Sorry."

 

He patted Bucky's back. "You can stop playing whenever you want," he reminded him.

 

"I don't want to stop." He wouldn't admit defeat. That intensity was there on his face again.

 

"Okay, as long as you're having fun. We don't want this to upset you."

 

"I'm not upset. I'm fine."

 

"If you say so."

 

And he did. Another dozen times or so for the next few games. In the seventh, he actually didn't lose. Steve felt it was worth that beer being spilt all over him to see the brightness in Bucky's eyes. He didn't lose the next game or the one after that either. His control was getting better and Sam's and Natasha's was getting worse. All the same, Natasha could not be beaten. She had this speed, daring, tactics trio all worked out. No matter what, she would win by setting up someone to fail after her last move left the tower teetering perilously. Another game and Bucky almost won, the tower swaying visibly as Natasha moved, but again she set Sam up for failure. As that tower had swayed, Steve thought he'd seen joy in his friend's face again. The next game did not go so well.

 

"Just pull the center one."

 

"Not pull, push."

 

Bucky was squinting at the blocks. The center of gravity of the whole thing was so mixed up, it was impossible to know which block would tumble it or not. Steve had no idea how he'd managed to make his move just before.

 

"Center is always a good choice."

 

"I'll choose something, if you all shut up," he grumbled and everyone sat quietly as asked for exactly three seconds.

 

"D'you see that one on the row fourth from the top? That's a good one."

 

"Shut. Up." Bucky froze, a millimeter from the tower. "Please."

 

"I wouldn't choose that one," Natasha warned under her breath, but Bucky kept on. Steve held his breath.

 

The block managed to come out smoothly from the tower and Bucky sucked on his lips, hovering to place it on the top.

 

"Careful…" Steve couldn't help but murmur.

 

"I know."

 

Bucky set the little rectangular piece of wood on top of the rest with a measure of gentleness he didn't seem capable of. It didn't even make a sound as it made contact. As was her habit, Natasha waited the full ten seconds between Bucky's move and her own. As she did, the tower moved towards its left, then its right, almost steadying out, but the weight of the block Bucky had placed was just too much. It swayed back to the left and then spilled apart.

 

"OH!" Came the collective cry.

 

Bucky stared at the blocks as they settled, his mouth pinched. Without warning he stood up and upended the table. He made no sound, but the table, Jenga blocks, and shattering beer bottles compensated for that. As the pieces clattered a little farther from their group and spilt beer dripped from chair legs and walls, Buck stood completely immobile, seething at his mess. Steve sighed loudly, but suddenly felt the tension dissolve. He'd known this was coming, the expectation had been putting him on edge. Natasha, meanwhile, stared coolly up at Bucky, mildly dissatisfied. Sam wiped down his arms and muttered, "rude."

 

As quickly as the rage had erupted, it subsided. Bucky deflated and ducked his head. "I'm sorry," he said sullenly, but didn't stick around to hear their responses. He was stomping towards the back without another word, and definitely without making eye contact.

 

"His temper is improving," came Natasha's evaluation once the bedroom door shut. Steve wheeled on her.

 

"You were _testing_ him?"

 

She shrugged. "Maybe a little."

 

"You couldn't have just let him have fun? You couldn't have let him win?"

 

She regarded him with green eyes as sober as ever. Her mouth held a hint of disappointment. "You know that's not in my nature, Steve."

 

"Hey, hey, hey, now!" Sam stood and looked between them. Steve crossed his arms but stopped staring Natasha down. "This was supposed to be fun. That was all. Everybody calm the fuck down." He stooped over and began picking up scattered blocks and shards of glass alike. "Y'all gonna help?"

 

Natasha and Steve joined in, silent for a few moments. Eventually he asked, "you two didn't plan this with ulterior motives?"

 

"No," Natasha answered innocently enough. "Those just come naturally for me," she added with a rueful smile. Steve relented. Suddenly he felt bad for snapping at her.

 

"Alright. Sorry, Natasha."  
 

"It's fine. I should probably learn to turn things down now and again."

 

Sam was grinning at them. "Good. Good. Everybody make up. I want another beer, you guys?"

 

"How is there even that much room in the refrigerator?" Steve asked, carrying his glass pieces to the trash.

 

"I'm a master fridge arranger." Sure enough there was still a good half dozen bottles on the bottom shelf. "Natasha?"

 

"I saved mine," she answered, holding up the intact bottle. "So… maybe next time it would be wiser to choose a game that doesn't remind Barnes of his world falling apart."

 

"Maybe."

 

"How 'bout charades," Sam suggested, helping Steve set the table aright. "That way he doesn't have to talk."

 

"I think Yahtzee would be a safe bet too," Steve added, then paused and listened as squeaking sounded from the rear of the apartment.

 

"Water pipes," Natasha assured him and then sat down at the table. "He's showering."

 

"Great. That means we have about an hour to play some more." Sam began setting up the wooden blocks again. He was exaggerating, but nonetheless proved right. The shower lasted through two beer rounds and three more games of Jenga. As the third seemed to be teetering on a close, Steve began mentioning how he'd like to shower before lights out. He said something of that nature three or four more times, but didn't actually act on it. He wasn't going to go bother Bucky.

 

Sam saw things differently, though. When the last mention came out as a complaint instead of a joke, he stood up, rolling his eyes, and barged into Steve and Bucky's room. Buck's clothes had been left folded at the foot of his bed, his shoes tucked underneath it. It looked like a barracks in there. That made sense. He could hear the shower splattering loudly as he shut the door. It was hot and humid from the steam, even in the room itself. Buck was going to use up all the hot water again.

 

Without thinking of knocking, Sam busted right into the bathroom. "Buck. Dude, get the fuck out the shower." When he neither responded nor turned off the water, Sam steeled himself and ripped away the curtain. "Man, get the hell out of the damn shower. Seriously."

 

That did nothing productive. Buck didn't move to get out or turn the water off. Instead, with his eyes shut and the stream pouring over his head, he merely lifted his left hand in Sam's direction, flipping him off.

 

Sam couldn't help but snort. "Buck, if you don't get out now, Steve's not going to be able to shower. He needs hot water too, you know." A blue eye popped open and looked at him. "Yeah. I'm not just in here for the show. Come on, let's go."

 

"Then you could stop staring," he replied, with just an edge of humor.

 

Sam snorted again and stomped right back out, the shower shutting off behind him. "He flipped me off," he announced, back in the living room. "And he still has no physical modesty."

 

Steve covered his face in his hands. Natasha shrugged. "He has nothing to be shy about," she said and then, pausing for a second with brows raised, set aside her beer. "None of you do," she added, rubbing her eye. "Well, I'm going to my room."

 

With Natasha flitted away, Sam snorted and ran his hands over his face. "This just can't not be weird, can it?"

 

"I don't know what… you mean…" Steve pretended ignorance and edged towards his room. There were just some things that he wasn't ready to talk with anyone about. "Goodnight, Sam."

 

"'Night."

 

Lights out came quickly after that. With Steve showered and the front of house shut down, the whole apartment grew still. The wind picked up outside and Natasha's voice came floating through the walls now and again, but it was mostly quiet. After the day they'd all had, sleep came easily. No nightmares broke the peace, no screams of pain or fear. For once, they were all just sleeping.

 

Too bad there was a football game that night. The fireworks started around eleven, right about an hour after they'd gone to sleep. And boy, if that wasn't an auditory trigger for over half the people in that apartment, nothing was. Sam sat up with a gasp, his head spinning. It was completely dark in his room, his window covered over with dark drapes and not an LED in sight. He had no idea where he was for a few breathless seconds. But, he wasn't flying, the air was still. He was inside, in a bed. _Then, what the fuck was that noise?_ Somewhere in the next room, a clip was being loaded. Natasha had awoken too, and was on edge. He heard a thump and few other scuffling noises across the hall and figured Steve was quelling Buck's freak out. Sam was just about out of bed to go help when the door flew open.

 

"Shit!" Sam scrambled to free himself from his blankets. Whatever was going on, that was one huge motherfucker in his doorway.

 

"Sam, it's okay." Oddly, it spoke with Steve's voice. Sam found a light switch and turned it on. Steve was there, yes, draped over Bucky's shoulder, craning his neck to look at Sam. "Bucky's just…"

 

Yeah, Buck was 'just…' something. That was for sure. His eyes danced over the room, a little too wide. When he seemed satisfied with how the room looked, he turned and barreled out of it just as quickly. The door next to Sam's clattered open next and the sound of a gun cocking answered it.

 

"NAT! It's just us!"

 

"It's just fireworks, Barnes," Nat's voice returned lightly. "We're all safe. Thanks for checking."

 

By that point, Steve's heart had dropped from his throat and was beating normally in his chest again. He still couldn't slip Bucky's grip though. He'd pinned him over that shoulder well. It had nearly scared him to death when the fireworks had gone off. He thought they were being attacked, as he assumed Bucky had. The tackle hadn't helped any. Blindsided as he'd been, he couldn't have properly fought Bucky from carrying him out of there like a sack of potatoes. At that moment, though, he would have appreciated avoiding it. He felt ridiculous.

 

Bucky hadn't come down off his alert-mode yet though. Even with both Sam and Natasha okay and the explanation provided, he was taut and his grip was iron.

 

"Nat's right, Buck," Sam said behind them, now out of his bed and in the hall with them. "It's just fireworks from the college. They must have won their football game."

 

"Fireworks?"

 

"Yeah, not gunfire, not bombs. Fireworks."

 

"Fireworks." Bucky's fingers loosened, his hand then arm dropped away. Steve slipped back to the ground and straightened his clothes. "Just fireworks."

 

"Yeah, just fireworks." As Steve went to pat his shoulder, Bucky shrugged away. He was staring at the ground, mouth bowed downwards. That was shame. "It's okay, Bucky. We were all startled." His consolation found no audience, every gesture was pushed away.

 

Bucky backed from them until he hit the hallway wall and then slid to the ground. Steve was going to let him gather himself until he heard the sniffle. Bucky was crying. When Steve knelt beside him, he turned away.

 

"When I heard fireworks the first time again, I nearly shot a dog," Sam admitted behind them. There was no response. Steve tried finding his friend again, tried to get him to look at him. When he succeeded he found only pain and shame.

 

"What's wrong, Bucky? We were all startled. It's okay."

 

In the half-light the shadows under Bucky's eyes looked as they had when they'd first captured him. The blue was bright with anguish though.

 

"You have nothing to hide about. It'll be fine. Promise."

 

"It's all so goddamn confusing!" He shouted, anguish morphing into rage. His left arm leapt up, a flash of silver, and smashed through the wall. Bucky withdrew it slowly, his mouth open. The hole stared back as he considered it, shock and then shame returning. "Holy fucking shit. Goddamn motherfucking fuck-face. Shitting, fucking asshole, stupid goddamn spastic cockbag. Fuckwit son of a bitch!"

 

They all listened as he continued spewing a colorful combination of profanities. As those ran out with his rage and embarrassment, Sam stepped forward. "Don't worry about it, Buck. We'll fix it."

 

He was on his feet then, back to them. "I'll fix it. In the morning." He slipped away from Steve's hand and through their door, mumbling an apology as he left.

 

There wasn't much left to say out in the hallway, so Steve gave them a sad smile and followed Bucky inside. By the time he got in there, Buck was just a lump under his covers, back to Steve, and his headphones eking the tiny strands of song from under the blankets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I want to thank you for reading, and send out a special bit of thanks to those who left kudos and their kind comments. Those are always lovely!  
> This was the last part of the SECURITY and STABILITY block. The next block 'Relationships' begins with the chapter 'FRIENDSHIP.'


	10. FRIENDSHIP

The first day of duty snuck up on them, if truth be told.

 

With their routine established and things actually normalizing, day-to-day life hadn't felt so torturously drawn out. And they only had one hole in a wall and a splintered chair to show for it. Gold stars all around.

 

When the thunderous pounding interrupted their breakfast, it actually startled Sam. As he jumped in his chair and Natasha peered over her coffee cup, Bucky stood. He was in stealth-mode with knife in hand, edging to the door. As soon as he looked through the peep hole, though, that deactivated and he collapsed back at the table with no small degree of exasperation. Steve hadn't even had time to formulate his talk-down speech. Mask on, he answered the door, curiosity written on his other face too, and Bucky's rancor immediately became clear. His headphones were on and blaring before anyone else could process their guest.

 

The Chief had some shortcomings, yes. He was far more boisterous than anyone should be, and for longer intervals than seemed possible. And the man had a diaphragm on him that would have made Pavarotti proud. Bucky had no patience for the lack of volume control that came with it that morning, apparently. He'd taken to doing that, to putting on his headphones whenever he wanted to ignore them. But, it was different with your boss. For one, it was rude and impertinent. The other three were just barely getting used to being tuned out mid-sentence. For another, the Chief didn't know the full background behind Bucky's personality conflicts. PTSD could only be an excuse for so much.

 

But neither Bucky nor the Chief seemed to care about any of that. The latter regarded Bucky's turned back and, if he took offense, he didn't let it show. Bucky actually hunkered down between his shoulders when the Chief started speaking.

 

"Good morning! Good morning."

 

A mumbled chorus of 'good morning's responded. The Chief grinned and created three new chins. "Glad to see you've all settled in. It's so nice to have someone living in this building. All our utilities here were just going to waste!" He turned where he stood, examining the living space and the kitchen.

 

Natasha became the spokesperson. Her twanging accent made Bucky sink even lower in his chair. "Glad to have somewhere to go, o' course, Chief. Please, make ya'self at home. Coffee?"

 

"No, thanks, Kat. I've already had myself a whole pot." He did make himself at home, though. He paced around the whole of the front room and then the kitchen, fiddling with things as he went. "Well, I hope you've enjoyed your time off. Today's your first shift. This here is your schedule…" He paused at the head of the hallway and regarded what used to be Bucky's hole in the wall. Now it was a very creatively caulked and painted patch. The Chief had his three additional chins again when he turned back around. "Let's hope it suits everyone." Thank god Bucky didn't see the knowing look darted towards him. "Speaking of suits, yours are hanging on pegs four through seven, if you need them. They should all fit."

 

Natasha accepted the printed schedule as the Chief made his way back to the kitchen. When his eye lingered on it, Sam held out the plate of bacon.

 

"Uh, sir…" Steve edged up beside the Chief as he enjoyed the slice or two he'd accepted. "We want to apologize for James' behavior he's--" He stopped when a pudgy hand waved its dismissal.

 

"Never a care on this end, Hal. Never a care. You don't have to be friendly, just effective." He clapped Steve on the shoulder, leaving a little grease stain on the gray cotton. "And I imagine you're all very effective. Good luck tonight." He lumbered out surprisingly gracefully, bestowing them all with his chin-loaded smile one more time. His booming laughter was heard retreating down the hall, just as loud as it would have been in the apartment.

 

"I'm not apologizing," Bucky announced before anyone else could react. He set aside his headphones and stared at all of them in challenge. "It was that, or I killed him." Sometimes it was difficult to tell if he was being sincere or sarcastic. The way he looked down at his breakfast on the final words gave away the game this time. Try as he might, Bucky couldn't quite mock away his residual violent tendencies.

 

"I, for one, think you made the right choice," Sam replied glibly. "Though, if you had killed him, I'd still have bacon with my breakfast." He stood and returned to the stove, the sound of sizzling and popping soon filling the air again.

 

"We'll keep working on that, Bucky." Even said the thirty-thousandth time, Steve's words rang strong and certain. He sat down at his empty spot at the table and returned to reading the paper. "So, what's the word, Nat?"

 

Bucky met her eye as Natasha finished surveying him. He averted his almost immediately. Yes, that was definitely shame. He was in one of his nastier moods. Those were a constant. The improvement was that he could identify that and cope accordingly. She'd been there once, sometimes visited unintentionally. Steve scrunched his expression and shook his head a fraction when she looked to him.

 

"The schedule? Well, let's see…" The intoxicating scent of frying fat wafted to them as she read it over to herself. "It's… not what we expected." Two sets of blue eyes were on her now, wearing near identical expressions. "Our hours are midnight to noon."

 

"Oh," Steve said quietly, eyes darting immediately to his friend.

 

Changing the routine was a risk. Bucky didn't like change in general, but it was the regularity of the daily routine that seemed to give him the feeling of control. Changing that was going to feel like his line was cut and he was floating out to sea. They would have to prepare for a serious backtracking. Being on-call then meant that they wouldn't be able to leave the apartment between the hours of midnight and noon. That meant no morning run, one of Bucky's favorite things.

 

As they sat waiting for the reaction to that change, the metal arm whirred and clinked. He didn't smash anything, just flexed his hands and his jaw like he was working through it. "No dawn run," he said quietly. When Steve nodded, he closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. He was breathing through it, like they'd worked on. Nonetheless, Natasha carefully cleared away the table in preparation for him to destroy another piece of furniture.

 

Steve covered a sigh and swung around his chair so that he was facing Bucky. He waited until the full count of ten breaths had been taken and then grabbed him by the shoulders. "Look at me, Buck." He didn't flinch anymore when Bucky flashed poison with his glares. "Look at me. There. Think about it. It's not so bad. Look at me." The firmness to Steve's voice was impressive. Especially since Natasha knew that it sapped all of his energy to exert any degree of force on Bucky. "What's changed? Really?" He didn't receive a response. Bucky's mouth was too tied up biting through his lip. Most of the time now it wasn't the apartment that suffered the brunt of his reactions. "It's just our run in the morning. But, we can still run at sunset, and you can still see it rise from the front window. Not that much different. Right?"

 

Bucky nodded, small at first. As Steve held his eye and smiled, he nodded more assertively, his up-knitted brow smoothing some, mouth unclenching enough to let the blood pool just at the edge of his lips. Natasha stood, no longer worried about triggering him with movement, to grab a paper towel. Sam handed her one before she asked and walked back with her to the table.

 

"You don't need to punish yourself, Barnes," she said, almost wincing at the melancholy in her own voice.

 

"The pain helps me focus on something besides the rage." His voice with cloudy with one and waning of the other. When he blotted at his mouth, it brought away more blood than had been there before. Steve handed him a glass of water, but kept the other hand on his shoulder. From the look on his face, it was more for his own benefit than to restrain Bucky.

 

The moment was broken by a loud crunch. Sam had his bacon again. "If it helps, and it might, I can teach you some yoga I learned from a very talented instructor at the VA. You can do the sun salute in the morning."

 

"What all do you know how to do?" Natasha wondered aloud. Sam shrugged but didn't grin like usual. No one dealt with Bucky's pain easily.

 

"I think that might be a good thing to try. What do you think, Bucky?"

 

With the rage-fit over, he looked ashamed and tired. He didn't respond with much enthusiasm, only enough to let him escape. "Yes. Maybe." After a few minutes at the window sill, the strength was back in his voice. "That's three without a full reversion." It was more a factual announcement than anything indicative of pride. After a few more, he returned to stand just out of reach of the table. "I'm sorry."

 

"Nothing to apologize for."

 

"That's right. You handled it."

 

"And like you said, no reversion."

 

He cinched his mouth up and nodded toward the floor. When he lingered there for few more minutes, it became clear there was more he wanted to say. When that was the case, it was best not to stare, so they all resumed what they were doing to let him gather himself. He didn't say anything else, however. He only patted Steve's shoulder, tentatively at first, and then a little more assertively, with a squeeze at the end. Steve grinned in return, accepting the gesture of thanks. Bucky grew uncomfortable, though, and withdrew to the kitchen with a look of embarrassment. Almost as if he couldn't handle being a well-behaved member of the household, he went right to the refrigerator, pulled out the milk carton, and began drinking straight from it.

 

"Barnes!"

 

"Bucky, no, not out of the carton. We've talked about this."

 

He shrugged and kept on.

 

Natasha rolled her eyes. "You just volunteered yourself for grocery duty by doing that."

 

The carton hit the counter with an empty thwack. He looked her dead in the eyes. "Fine."

 

"Fine."

 

And so began the showdown. Buck and Nat did this sometimes. Something about the two of them made their interactions an unpredictable business. They were like oil and water. Sam often didn't understand the point of Nat's boldness in moments like this, especially when Buck had just been on the edge of the no fly zone. But she was the master tactician, not him. And if Steve could sigh his way through it, then so could Sam.

 

He did. He heaved a massive sigh and walked his dishes to the sink. "So, it's that day again."

 

"Yes. Especially since now we're out of milk."

 

Buck could not have given less of a shit about the passive-aggressiveness of that comment. It hit Steve deep though, by the sound of yet another sigh. Sam would've paid money to see Steve at, like, a family dinner with his in-laws or something. He would probably hyperventilate from all the sighing. Or as close as his super-lungs would allow.

 

"Okay, whose turn is it this time?"

 

"You mean besides Barnes'? We'll have to randomize it."

 

Nat's phone decided that she was going to the grocery store with Buck, while Steve did laundry and Sam cleaned the floors. Sam felt that was justice for her provocation. She and Buck could go be in time-out together in a very public location. That could only go well, right? Sam felt even more certain of the outcome of the grocery expedition when Nat grinned her feline smile and ushered Bucky through the door. She was plotting something, that one.

 

So was Steve. And it wasn't laundry. Sam turned back from locking the front door to find his earnest face searching him, all full of concern. "Uh… something on your mind, Steve?"

 

"Yes, Sam. I'm glad we have a chance to sit down and talk finally."

 

"Well, maybe not _sit down_ and talk. I've got floors to sweep and mop and you've got underclothes to wash."

 

Steve shook his head. "That can wait for just a few minutes. I've been neglecting you and Natasha because of Bucky, and it's time I made up for that. So, how are you?" He smiled so brightly and genuinely that Sam had to laugh. He looked like a giant, over-muscled child.

 

"Look, Steve, don't worry about it, man. I understand, I think Nat and I both understand just fine--"

 

"No, no, no, no." Another shake of his head. "Now, I've been caught up in my own head and the least I could have done was to check in, probably also thank you." He resumed that earnestness and held out his hand. "Thank you, Sam. And I owe you more than just my gratitude. Let's call that a promise."

 

"Oh, come on, Steve. I'm glad to help. You know that." He sat when Steve stopped shaking his hand. "I've said it before, I'll say it again. It's Captain America. Captain freakin' America. I could hardly complain."

 

The earnestness didn't let up even with Sam playing it off. Actually, it seemed to intensify. "You're a good friend. I wouldn't have made it without you. Honest. Bucky wouldn't have either, or a lot of the world."

 

"Again, my pleasure. And if you make me say it again, I'm gonna start sweeping." Steve smiled and dropped his chin in a nod. Sam continued, "and it feels good to be back in action… sort of…" he waved around at the apartment, the broom and the piles of laundry, "if you call this action. Though, seriously, and well… you know what I'm about to say, college town lock-down is gonna be a challenge. I can do normal life, sure, but I'm gonna miss some things."

 

"You're free to go home, any time you want, Sam," Steve replied, going all mushy sincere again. "I wouldn't want you doing anything you--"

 

"Oh, shut up! I warned you, I'll go sweep." When the smile was back, Sam explained. "Besides, I already gave you my answer on that topic, and like you said, you need me. Speaking of, how are you doin'? It's been rough. You managing?"

 

Steve responded with a chuckled first. "You and Natasha both, worriers. She asked me a few days back practically the same question." That wasn't even close to an answer.

 

"And…?"

 

"And, thank you for your concern, Sam, really. I wouldn't be able to answer that if it weren't for you both, let's say that."

 

Sam scoffed, "man, that is a cop out if I ever heard one." He grabbed Steve's elbow as he tried standing to end the conversation. "Sit your ass back down and talk to me. You said the chores could wait 'til we'd talked. Now you called me a friend and got me to promise I was sticking around, but we didn't talk. You won't share? That's bullshit. I call bullshit!"

 

"Alright. Alright!" Steve waved his hands to stop the bullshit calling, a smile begrudgingly pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Alright, Sam. We'll talk, I'll share what's going on, but only if you will the same way afterwards."

 

"Damn straight," Sam nodded. "I love talk-time. It's literally my job."

 

* * *

 

Barnes in the van was an experience. A strange, unsettling experience. At first, Natasha couldn't even get him to get inside of it.

 

"I've only ever sat in the back," he mumbled when she tried to push him towards the passenger-side door. He dug his heels in and didn't move another inch.

 

"Do you _want_ to ride in the back?" She asked, heading around to open the rear doors.

 

"Not particularly." She could almost see him remembering the times he'd sat in the back of that van. And yet, still he didn't budge.

 

"Well, you can't ride on top, so you'll have to get in the front seat or sit in the back."

 

He pushed the hair from his eyes, fiddled with the glove on his left hand, anything but got inside the car. Natasha grew impatient.

 

" _Please_ get in the van, Barnes." She stood on the inside of the driver's door and peered at him just over the roof. He might not be getting in, but she was. One last pleading bat of her eyelashes and she swung inside, slamming the door shut behind her. It was fine. He would make up for this with other chores. She could shop by herself. Even if she had hoped this time would allow her a better evaluation of his state, just the two of them. No need to push him into a reaction just to buy some milk and sate a bit of curiosity.

 

But then the other door clicked open and Bucky slipped inside. He sat and looked around, nodding his head. "Much better than the back."

 

"Yes, much fewer full-body restraints. Just one, which you have to put on." Natasha started the car and pointed to his right. "Your seat belt, you have to buckle it."

 

"No."

 

Of course. She'd gotten him in the vehicle, but she couldn't actually move the vehicle. Not until he buckled that seatbelt. They couldn't afford getting pulled over, not for the littlest thing. "Please."

 

"No."

 

"If you don't buckle it, we're not going anywhere."

 

He crossed his arms and cut his eyes at her. After a moment of considering, he uncrossed them and frowned. "We're going to the grocery store, though."

 

"Yes," she replied with some exasperation.

 

"Then why do you need to restrain me?"

 

"It's not really a restraint, it's for safety. See? I'm wearing one." She pulled out the strap across her chest to prove it. Then she added for good measure, "it's the law now."

 

Bucky sucked on his lips and then suddenly pressed the release button on her buckle. When it popped free and nearly smacked her in the face, he stopped frowning and pulled his own over to secure it. "There. Happy?"

 

Natasha considered replying just as sarcastically, but decided upon her empty simper. No point in instigating. None. She had to remember that. "Thank you."

 

When they were finally moving, he wasn't as still or contemplative as she had expected. No, instead of staring out the window at the passing scenery or merely listening to the music on the radio with that sullen pout of his, he discovered what the switches on his door did. Once he found the window controls, that was the end of it. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. She had no idea where this curiosity was coming from. He'd been tactilely curious with his shirts, but he had also known how to use a computer and never fidgeted with its buttons. Now here they were in a standard automobile and he was entranced by the power controls.

 

"What are you doing, Barnes?"

 

"They didn't use to do this," he informed her with a quick flash of blue. "You used to have to roll them down by hand." Then he stopped, leaving the window most of the way down. "I'm irritating you."

 

"No… just… confusing me." She glanced over as he leaned his head back, eyes closed with the wind blowing back his hair. He was suddenly very puppy-like. "What happened to the brooding, grumpy Barnes? Hmm?"

 

He shrugged, mouth and shoulder. "Don't feel like being that way right now."

 

"Oh, simple as that is it?"

 

Bucky opened his eyes. "No." It was just one word, possibly his favorite that he'd said to her dozens of times, but this time it sounded different. He watched her react to that word and then tilted his head out of the window.

 

Natasha would have to let that lie and figure it out later. They were pulling into the grocery store's parking lot and she couldn't risk a crisis in the van with all these civilians around. "Okay. Be that as it may, I need you to be a different way inside of the store. I need you to play James."  

He regarded her with pursed lips as he rolled up his window. "You want me to be a different person?" With his chin tilted up like that, looking down his nose at her, Natasha couldn't tell if the irony in that statement was humorous or threatening.

 

"Well, inside the store, you can't be the man who just discovered power windows. So, yes."

 

He nodded at that and then turned away, skating one more glance her way. It was so un-mechanical, that response, that Natasha paused in her seat. Either he was getting much better, or he'd been playing them this whole time. She brought an extra knife with her from the glove box.

 

Bucky was grinning at her when she shut the van door.

 

"…James…?"

 

A hint of something scrunched his brows briefly, but he kept smiling. "Yep!" He was already in character. Good for him. Natasha pretended that she hadn't just loaded her widow bites to maximum voltage and returned his smile.

 

"Alright, groceries." She threaded her arm through his offered elbow and headed towards the store. Barnes outside of the van was going to be an experience as well.

 

* * *

 

"It blew him into space, but the controls were busted. So I had to pilot it."

 

"You mean to tell me that that thing that allowed all those aliens to attack New York was in Nazi hands back then? That's crazy. What happened then?"

 

"Well…" Steve grimaced and rubbed at his jaw. "I had to do something. The plane was heading straight for New York. It was going to kill thousands of people, maybe more, and I couldn't reset its course."

 

"You had to crash it."

 

A solemn nod. "I had to put it down somewhere, and up there was the best option. It was all sea and ice. No one was going to get hurt."

 

"Except you. And Peggy and all your friends."

 

Steve drew in a deep breath, his eyes purposefully not on Sam. "Yes, well… we're supposed to be cleaning this place up." He hopped to his feet. "Can't let Natasha down, can we?"

 

"Oh, don't you think we're done talking about this stuff just because we've got chores to do. We can talk and clean at the same time." Sam received no response from that, just a look older than the face that gave it. "So, you crash landed. Is that all?"

 

"More or less. I said a few things to Peggy… we made plans… and then the radio broke out. The impact wasn't so bad, or I don't remember it. It was the cold that I remember. And then, just as quick I was being woken up. Or it felt just as quick."

 

Sam paused from sweeping under the table. "That must have been a shock, waking up here."

 

"You could say that. Credit where credit's due, S.H.I.E.L.D. did try to ease me into it, but their research team was either incompetent or lazy because they flubbed it up pretty severely. I smashed my way out of the recovery room and tried to make a run for it. The real shock was seeing the buildings. New York was entirely changed."

 

"I remember the news footage. Even over there they aired it. You looked like a lost puppy, but we were all so excited." Sam could see Steve blushing as he loaded clothes into the washer. "And that was that? You just hopped right back to it?"

 

Steve scoffed. "No. You know that." "Yeah, well, I was trying to get you to share. Nothing's so simple as that. I remember acclimating to being stateside again. It was hard going. Took me months and months to stop doing certain things, turning off all my lights when the sun set, reaching for a helmet when my alarm went off. And then there was the other stuff. As many months of depression, the nightmares, the guilt." Sam pressed his lips together as a fresh wave of pain washed over him, completely uninvited.

 

"Riley?"

 

"Yeah. Riley."

 

"I'm sorry, Sam. That's… well, it's not something you just move on from." He shut the washer and walked over to hold the dust pan in place. "You knew that, though."

 

"Sure. And so do you. Riley was a good wingman, a good friend, and I miss him. I do, but… it does him no honor to use him as an excuse not to take care of things. That's what I had to keep telling myself. Now, saving D.C., that does him his due." Sam found himself grinning at the thought of Riley's response to that. He'd have punched him right in the stomach. "He would have loved flying with us, though. Really loved it."

 

"Do you ever wonder what might have happened if you'd completed your mission, both of you?" Sam could tell by the way he asked the question that Steve was talking more about his own mission than Sam's.

 

"No. I'm of the opinion it does nobody any good to dwell on what-ifs. Just a waste of energy and emotion that could be spent on something real." He dumped the sweepings into the trash and set his hands on his hips. Steve was looking out the front window, laundry basket forgotten in his arms. "But you obviously do." Sam waited for an explanation. He got none.

 

He only got a loud exhale and a shake of the head. "You're right, Sam. I'm just wasting energy here. I've got a lot to be grateful for." Steve had this way of making himself look invincible when really he had about a million bruises purpling under the surface. He turned back to Sam as composed and heroic as ever. "That's all over."

 

"Dude…" Sam rolled his eyes. This guy. Freaking poster boy for repression. "Dude, it's time. You're gonna make me ask about it, aren't ya?"

 

At Sam's question, Steve's shoulders bunched. "About what?" He'd poked a bruise.

 

"About what happened the first time with Buck. About the train, man. That's the one thing you haven't mentioned, but it was a big thing. You've gotta be avoiding it for some reason."

 

The only sound in the apartment was the gentle scrape of the broom. Sam filled in the high-pitched squeak of Steve's emotional-endurance-balloon deflating in his head.

 

* * *

 

 

When he wasn't weighted by the responsibility of being himself, Barnes had the potential for being excessively charming.

 

'James' was not only far more sociable than Bucky, but he was happier too. He smiled and made eye contact, spoke kindly to children and helped out old ladies. He was a walking cliché for 'the good old days'. And he was a flirt. Natasha didn't even have to prompt him. He gave winks and grins out freely. His arm around her was a constant presence, his lips were by her ear far more frequently than she could have ever expected. And she wasn't alone. He left one girl grinning like she had a coat-hanger in her mouth and another asking if Natasha and him were together. He'd answered with 'that's up to her' and Natasha had been left to smile demurely. He nonetheless got a phone number out of that one, which he immediately gave to Natasha like it was a bomb. That was as far as he could take the act. It was too real when they flirted back.

 

He'd recovered from that shock with no more than a few startled blinks and a smoothing back of his hair. He'd even grinned sheepishly at her afterwards. It was the interference on the store's PA system that nearly sent him into a meltdown.

 

Luckily, they were alone in the cereal aisle when it happened. He had just set the half dozen boxes of cereal she'd handed to him into the cart and was putting his arm back around her when the speaker crackled up. It sounded like they were having wiring troubles and the announcement for a price check on tissue paper came out half-garbled and incredibly screechy. Bucky's arm tightened around her shoulders instantly, and Natasha felt his whole body tense. He stopped moving entirely and, when she looked up, his face was a mask of pain. If he could see her, he didn't acknowledge her presence.

 

"James?"

 

She'd seen that look once before, but not on him. It was that same look of pity mixed with shame and pain that Natasha had seen on Banner's face on the helicarrier just before he'd transformed and begun the most terrifying seven minutes of her life. She did not welcome its reappearance on Bucky's face. He wasn't the Hulk, but he wasn't a bunny rabbit either. And they weren't in a government facility, hundreds of feet away from civilians with back-up just a second away. They were in a grocery store. She had a basket and a knife. And thirty-six witnesses.

 

"No," she said calmly, just loud enough for him to hear. His face shivered with a spasm. "Bucky, please." He was fighting it, hands balled into fists and yet he hadn't squeezed her to him any more tightly than a firm hug. He was still in control. Natasha disentangled herself and grabbed his shoulders like Steve always did. She was a poor substitute, but it would have to do.

 

"Cover your face. Focus on my voice." Bucky did as he was told. "You're okay. We're in a grocery store. That was just the public announcement system." He nodded into his hands and Natasha could feel him breathing again.

 

As a family moved past she rubbed her hands up and down his arms, smiling at them. "He gets migraines." They moved along with sympathetic frowns and hums.

 

"Take me out of here." His eyes were still covered but Natasha could see that his mouth was bleeding. "I don't want to hurt anybody."

 

"You're not going to. You're in control." She cracked open a water bottle and handed it to him, miming the handing over of pills as well for more onlookers. "Migraines," she told them with slightly raised voice. "Wash your mouth and take a second. You've done precisely what you've needed to so far and we're almost finished. Rushing you out of here is only going to draw more attention. You can make it."

 

He nodded, slowly uncovering the rest of his face. He drew a few more deep breaths and then returned. There was just a momentary gaze like he'd never seen her before, and then he was James again. He rubbed at his temples and gave a pained grin. "That threatened to be bad."

 

"But we took care of it," she answered, also in character again, but giving him one more firm shoulder pat.

 

" _You_ took care of it. Thank you." His face was James but his words Bucky, just a little too solemn. Then, he surprised her, kissing her on the cheek. "All better. I think we need _milk_ , don't we?"

 

* * *

 

"Peggy told me… it was just afterwards and when I was trying my darnedest to drink away the memory of it… she told me that it was Bucky's choice. She said that by blaming myself I was taking away the honor of his sacrifice. I didn't listen to her. You see, it might have been Bucky's choice in word, but it was mine in the end. He did whatever I did. He went where I went, because that was who he was. He was loyal and he watched my back. I didn't watch his, though…"

 

"Steve…" Sam warned. "You just told me what happened. You were watching his back, that HYDRA guy was just too much for both of you."

 

"But if I'd just--"

 

"Oh, don't start the if's. You know how I feel about the if's."

 

Steve sagged some more somehow. "Well, all the same, I blamed myself for it then, I feel responsible for what happened to him now. It's--it's all on me. I still have nightmares about it. Reliving it at night as if that could change things, except even then it never does. He always falls, screaming in agony. And now, sometimes he just keeps screaming and I wake up and it's actually Bucky screaming, attacked in his own nightmare. It's a horror show, Sam."

 

"The nightmares, yes. I feel you with the nightmares. I do. The rest, though… you _got_ to stop with the guilt, Steve. It doesn't build character, as much as they'd have you believe in Catholic school."

 

Steve cut a confused glance over and then they fell quiet. The sloshing and splashing of the mop was all they heard for a while. Eventually, Sam had to say something, had to cheer the slouch out of Steve's shoulders.

 

"You gotta admit, though, it's working out better than you'd expected. You know, back there in the bombed out bar with the whole bottle of whiskey."

 

He snorted, completely unpatriotically. "Yeah, I just thought I'd gotten my best friend killed back then. But in reality, I'd gotten him mutilated and then left him to die in the mountains. And then, since I thought he was dead and didn't go back for him, I abandoned him to HYDRA for more torture. But, wait, that's not all. Then, after the torture, there was more torture which robbed him of his life all the same but, instead of leaving him to be dead in peace, made him into a killing machine. Yeah. Much better than I expected." He popped out the towel he pulled from the dryer so hard its hem snapped. He sagged then. "But, he is alive. And he is recovering. I can't deny that, you're right." When he turned, presumably to give Sam his thanks again, his face dropped instead. Sam must not have been hiding his hurt very well. "Oh, Sam, I'm sorry. That… that was insensitive. I should be grateful. I am grateful. I am. Now, I just have to live with what he suffered through because of me."

 

That was it. Sam had had enough of this self-abuse. Steve might be grateful to have something Sam couldn't, but he was still way too down on himself and being donkey-stubborn about it. He walked straight up behind him at the dryer and smacked him upside the head. Steve ducked and caught at the back of his head, looking back at Sam like he'd just stabbed him or something.

 

"Man, are you kidding me?"  

"What?!"

 

"Stop it! This is not your fault. How many people have to tell you this, you stubborn antique! Peggy told you it wasn't, and she was right. If Nat were here right now, she'd say the same thing. And now I'm saying it, forcefully. That is not your fault. His brainwashing is not your fault. None of it was, is, or ever could be your fault. There was nothing you could do. You didn't know." When it looked like Steve's attention was failing, Sam waved his hand in Steve's face until he met his eye. "Hey! Hey. On me. Are you registering this? Repeat after me. I am not to blame."

 

He waited. Steve eventually sighed heavily and repeated with minimal enthusiasm. "I am not to blame."

 

"Errors from ignorance are not crimes."

 

"Errors from ignorance are not crimes."

 

"I cannot save everybody."

 

"I cannot save--wait what?"

 

"'Wait what' what? It's the truth: you can't save everybody."

 

"Okay, fine, but what does that have to do with what we're discussing. I will save Bucky, no excuses."

 

"Right, that's fine. You'll save him this time. So get over last time."

 

"But if I'd just gone back last time and found him, there wouldn't be this time and--"

 

Sam crossed his arms and just shook his head until Steve stopped speaking. "Uh-uh. No. Not a productive train of thought. Sorry for the pun. Because, see _, what if_ you had gone back and found him, hm? Then what? He'd have been a one-armed veteran all alone in this world mourning _his_ best friend and then would have died before you were found. Maybe even on another mission with you, or looking for you, if he was a fool-stupid as I think he was, as you were. You're a God fearing man, Steve. I know you are. Look at the way this all turned out and tell me that it wasn't for a reason. What iffing is only going to eat a hole through your heart. Don't do it. Just be grateful you have the second chance you got. Alright? We'll help you make it count."

 

Steve had gone from stalwart to unsure to sentimental over the course of Sam's little lecture. Now he was wearing his sappiest smile. Sam couldn't live with it. He shoved him with a hip out from in front of the washing machine. "Now move your ass so I can mop there."

 

Steve moved, though not really at the shove, and the two of them kept on with their chores for a time. When the washer was churning again and the heat was pouring from the dryer, Steve sidled back over to Sam and helped him dump his mop water. "Thanks, Sam. You were right. I should just listen to you guys more often."

 

"More like all the time. But you're welcome. And don't act so surprised. That's what friends do. That star-spangled glimmer in your eyes makes it seem like we're not."

 

Steve whacked him on the back affectionately and Sam struggled not to get his fresh soapy water all over the counter top. "No, no, you are my friend, Sam. Of course you are."

 

"Great! Now, when do I get to meet the other Avengers? I wanna join. Where do I submit my application? You'll give 'em a good word for me won't you?"

 

Steve barked out a few laughs and shoved Sam, mop, water and all away. "Cram it, Sam."

 

* * *

 

Things were more subdued as the two of them finished shopping. Barnes was good, but he wasn't that good. The shock of his near-episode wasn't shaken off so quickly as he made it seem. Sure, he didn't _appear_ any different to the untrained eye, but Natasha was getting there, to a full education in James B. Barnes. Most obviously, he was more soft spoken, letting Natasha speak for him, probably to avoid compromising them unintentionally while he was reining in his mind. But he wasn't gloomy. He kept smiling, though it didn't reach his eyes as fully, and no matter how he tried the anguish didn't quite completely leave his brow. That worked out as well, though. From the outside, he just acted like a man with a headache.

 

That said, Bucky had succeeded in shaking his metaphorical demons off his back more quickly and more efficiently than he had yet before and, as hard as it was to admit, than Natasha had expected. The kiss had been one thing, an extra flourish to secure the integrity of his role, the upbeatness despite his exhaustion that followed him all the way back into the van was a whole other. Perhaps taking on that persona with such devotion had made some of it rub off on Bucky. Perhaps Barnes was that good. Seventy years as an asset, whatever the kind, could imaginably do that to a person. Natasha didn't have the information at hand to determine either way.

 

"You play a role well, Barnes."

 

The smile had been only for show, but Bucky still kept the scowl stowed. He considered her with what Natasha would have called a wry neutrality as he fastened his seatbelt. "You like him better." A perfectly evasive answer, Natasha noted and started the van. Evasive and calculated. Bucky was fishing for information with his comment as much as she had been. She would have to tread carefully.

 

"Well, you did seem more at home in your skin acting like him." It seemed diplomatic and yet still parrying enough. The stillness to his blues indicated otherwise. Natasha paused. "… Who, Barnes? You _were_ being James, like I asked, weren't you?"

 

He shrugged his flesh shoulder, a full smirk playing over his face. Nonetheless, he couldn't hold her gaze. It was the window he spoke to in explanation. "In a way."

 

"In what way?"

 

"I was being James… James Barnes."

 

Natasha thrummed her fingers against the wheel. The ice was only getting thinner. "You mean yourself."

 

"My old self, yes."

 

When she glanced his way, Bucky was watching her reaction, as expected. Natasha took a second to apply her new knowledge of his mannerisms. There was caution, his brow always heralded caution it seemed, but his eyes and face betrayed smugness. He knew he'd fooled her and was proud of himself. The question Natasha had was why he would give up that strategic advantage he was so pleased with.  

"And why are you telling me this, Barnes?"

 

The smugness evaporated. Bucky was blank faced as he sat back and faced the window. "I'm trying… trying to find out how I can be _happy_." He sounded like that word was still uncomfortable for him. "I want to be happy. And James… _I_ was happy when I was being, among other things, honest with people, with friends. I wanted to try to be honest with you, because that's what you are with friends…. _Are we_ friends, Natasha? Because if we are, you can start being honest with me too."

 

"We're friends, Barnes, but I don't trust you."

 

"I don't trust you either," he shot back. "But I like you all the same."

 

"Yeah, I like you too." Natasha laughed, at the personality in his voice as much as at his words. Snarky drawl and all.

 

"Steve trusts you."

 

"Mm-hmm, and he trusts you implicitly."

 

"That must mean something," he decided. "You wouldn't betray him would you? Because I would hunt you down and kill you, if you did." The lightness of his tone was at odds with that threat. Bucky was still mastering inflection it seemed. That, or death threats rolled that glibly from his lips naturally.

 

Natasha was still unfazed. "I know you would, but I wouldn't. He's my friend. One of very, very few, and I, like you, take care of my friends."

 

"I suppose you do, because here we are."

 

"Exactly," she agreed with a grin. "Here we are."

 

The cab of the grin fell quiet then. Bucky grew still, like he'd powered down, or his mood had swung back to tall, dark and mute. That wasn't the case, however. Natasha caught the show in her side view mirror, the emotions warring for prevalence on his face. As they turned off the main road, Bucky settled on something soft.

 

"Thank you… for helping to save me and Steve. Thank you, Natasha."

 

She reached over and laid her hand on his left arm very lightly. It was cold even through the fabric of his shirt. "You're welcome, Bucky."

 

* * *

 

Steve's mind was far off and away when the front door creaked open. Instead of on the past, however, it was looking forward to the future. He was thinking about Tony Stark, of all people, and his big, ugly tower (because he still stuck by that evaluation of the building) in New York. Would Stark open that tower to Sam, to Bucky? Could Steve introduce his friends to his teammates? Could they all become one and the same? He wanted the answer to be yes, and if history had proved anything, it had shown Steve that he could make just about anything happen if he stuck his jaw out and dug his heels in.

 

As voices trickled into the apartment and laughter with them, Steve decided that Natasha had already answered his questions for him. She was both at once. And from the sound of it even back there scrubbing the bathroom floor, it seemed to Steve like she and Buck had turned a corner towards meeting somewhere in the middle of teammate and friend already. That left Sam, and he was an easy sell. His Stark-tech wings would only make it easier. And Stark would kill to play with Bucky's arm. There would be a place for them once they were done here, he could feel it.

"Well, you look like cleaning bathrooms is good for your mood." Natasha was one to talk. She made it seem like loading cucumbers into the fridge was good for your health. "We'll never have a dirty bathroom, I hope this means."

 

"You'd be surprised the peace of mind that comes from a toothbrush hitting the grout of a bathroom floor. That tiny scritch-scratch really cleans your soul too." Steve threw in a grin to seal the sass and found Bucky grinning too, at his shoes as he positioned soup cans in the pantry. It made him say something a little rash. "Hey, Buck, what do you say we strap on some gloves and give that old canvas in the basement a test of its mettle? I think we're ready to give sparring a go."

 

"I'd say I'm bringing my phone to video tape that," Sam said from the couch. "I don't care if it opens up my stitches, I'm hobbling around to record y'all at it."

 

Bucky scoffed at Sam's remarks, almost like laughing. "I'd say we're ready as well," he said, little wrinkles bunching beside his eyes. "But only if Natasha brings the tranquilizer gun."

 

No one argued with that, though a few glances were exchanged. Steve just kept telling himself that self-awareness to his own flaws was a good sign. The gloves the department had kept around looked about as old as Steve and Bucky and smelled like they'd never been washed. The two of them wrapped up their hands and strapped them on all the same. Meanwhile, Natasha pulled up a bench and propped herself up on it, eventually suggesting that Sam join her. He sat, relief on his face, but pretended like he could have stood for the whole thing.

 

"Alright y'all, we want a clean match down here," he called up into the ring, "but we also expect bad ass super-soldier moves!"

 

Steve smiled down from the canvas and then turned his attention on Bucky. If anything, he looked mischievous. "Ready, Buck? Easy goes it, just like old times."

 

"Hardly," Bucky replied, tapping Steve's extended glove and squaring up. "I don't have to hold back now."

 

"Not quite. Both of you have to hold back some or this building will come down around us." Natasha actually had her feet up, gun resting across her lap. She didn't look even remotely concerned for that potential outcome. "Now, fight."

 

Steve squared up as well and stared down his friend. The last time they'd face off like this, Steve hadn't been able to fight back and Bucky hadn't known who he was or who he was fighting. It felt like years ago, decades. Bucky tucked his chin, though, and that stare felt about ten degrees colder. It hadn't been that long.

 

"I said fight, you two. We've had enough staring matches already and we already know who'll win that one."

 

"She just wants to see our techniques for tactical reasons," Steve muttered under his breath and tossed out a test jab. Bucky swiped it away and then stepped out of range of another. He blew a strand of hair from his eyes and shrugged his shoulder.

 

"Can't blame her."

 

"No we can't."

 

They fell into full throttle then. Neither could land a solid hit for all their worth. Bucky dodged like he knew what Steve was going to do seconds before he himself decided and Steve blocked every move as if his shield were on his arm still. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sam grinning, wide-eyed, and a few times he heard him cheer one thing or another, but most of his focus was on Bucky. He was fast, just as fast as he'd been as the brainwashed assassin, and the strikes Steve blocked would have sent anyone else's bones a-rattling. He kept his feet solidly on the ground, though, so unlike before. It had been the kicks that had knocked Steve on his ass back in the streets of D.C.. He wondered why the change.

 

To test, or maybe just to be ornery, Steve parried a hard overhand left and swung around with a round house. Bucky managed to block it with his left arm but he was left staggering backwards and into the ropes.

 

"Hey! Are we boxing or are we fucking around?" He pushed off of the ropes with his eyes narrowed and stomped towards Steve, smoothing back his hair. It was all Steve could do not to grin.

 

"Just checking if you were paying attention."

 

"Oh, I'll show you attention."

 

Steve immediately regretted his decision. With full Winter Soldier maneuvers, Bucky was landing more blows than Steve was and those kicks were thunderous. But then again, he was having a lot more fun with it now.

 

"I never took you to be a kicker, Buck. I always thought you were a _real_ boxer. But all your power's in your legs, I guess."

 

The metal arm whizzed past and then back again, Steve blocking it, but taking his own elbow into his side with the force.

 

"And your gab's all bark and no bite, like always. Shut up and actually hit me, Steve." It sounded harsh, but Buck was grinning.

 

Steve laughed and spun, finally landing a full blow, a good left hook into Bucky's kidney. It hardly moved him. He did provide a courtesy 'ooh' though.

 

"Is that all you've got?"

 

"Are you taunting now?"

 

"Only because I think you're scared to hit me."

 

Sam was calling out in the background, but Steve couldn't make out what. He was focused on the ring and every motion happening in it.

 

"You want me to hit you, Buck? Really hit you?"

 

"Yeah, to make sure you haven't gotten old while you were defrosting."

 

"You were always the older one, remember?"

 

"Old enough to know better than you, but that was all." Bucky was still grinning, even as Steve's heel came down towards his shoulder. He kept grinning when he deflected it and threw a huge right swing to be deflected itself. "You punk."

 

"Jerk."

 

"You still telegraph, you know that?"

 

"And you've still got a big head," Steve shot back, feinting left but striking right. Bucky hit the canvas with an enormous thunk and stood up smiling even wider.

 

"Better a big head than a--" Either he was being cocky, that is big-headed, or he didn't expect Steve to actually follow through with the charge, because Bucky was taken completely off-guard by the tackle around his waist.

 

"Hey! Grappling's lame-sauce, guys!" Sam shouted out and threw his empty water bottle at the ring. Natasha shot it down with a tranq dart.

 

"I'll allow it," she quipped and laid the gun back down.

 

Bucky was good at close-range, he'd nearly killed Steve with hand-to-hand the week before. But on the ground, without his feet beneath him, he couldn't rely on his speed so much and he had no foundation from which to throw those ground-shattering blows. Steve had him pinned in under a minute. Had him in a choke hold quicker than that. Turned out, that metal arm was powerful, but pinned under Steve's leg it was still just an arm. And it tapped out just like a flesh arm as well. When Steve released his neck from his own elbow, Bucky started laughing. He laughed with his eyes shut and mouth open, eventually ripping his gloves off with his other arm to wipe at the tears in his eyes. He laughed and laughed and kept laughing while Natasha and Sam stared in frozen shock. Steve merely watched with a grin. Struggling to sit up and giggle at the same time, Bucky shoved Steve away, sent him skidding actually, and leaned back to catch his breath.

 

"Oh, fuck. Shit. Do you remember, Steve, the time I put you in--in a sleeper hold…" he was struggling to keep from laughing again, "and you passed clean out? You were like a limp fish and I thought I'd killed you and panicked for a solid ten minutes. Finally, you woke up and sat up rubbing your neck, saying 'I think it works.' Remember?" He laughed again, pointing at Steve and then glanced around at the rest of the room. "Oh, stop gaping at me, you shitwits, I can laugh. I just choose not to." He stood up, strapping back on his gloves, laughter stowed but smug smirk in place. "Swear to God… and Sam, if you don't delete that video, I will delete your whole goddamn phone."

 

It was Steve's turn to laugh now, at the look on Sam's face, at the pith of Bucky's story, with relief and delight. He squared up as Bucky did and grinned so wide he felt his cheeks aching.

 

"Right, Steve, it's round two and I'm not holding back now. I'm gonna kick your tiny ass."

 

His fists dropped an inch or so with his indignation. "Tiny? I'm not-- it's not… I'm much bigger than before--oof." Bucky went easy on him, the cross landing only enough to make Steve's head turn.

 

"Pay attention."

 

"By the by, Steve, man, he's right. Your ass is itty bitty. A child could hold it in one hand."

 

Steve parried a jab and whined, "it's not that small."

 

"Your waist _is_ very narrow, Steve," Natasha chimed in.

 

"It's not as small as it used to be."

 

Bucky agreed, "a child very literally could have held his ass in one hand back then."

 

Two out of three blows of Bucky's combo landed on Steve as discomfort crawled over his skin. "Could you all please stop talking about my… ass?"

 

"Is it the word or the concept that's making you uncomfortable, Steve?" Natasha asked. "Because I can use a different word, or come up with plenty of other asses to talk about. I'm bound to know someone with a proportionately smaller one than you."

 

"Both," Steve replied with some melodrama. Another punch found his gut just then.

 

"You know what else also used to make 'em uncomfortable?" Buck was getting bolder with every blow, that smirk almost unbearable now. "Talking about women."

 

Natasha actually clapped her hands in excitement then. "That's good! Thank you, Bucky. With all this going on, I'd forgotten about setting Steve up with someone… so, what about your neighbor?"

 

Steve groaned, a whole new array of combinations mentally lining up for Bucky in retribution. "Gee, thanks, Buck." He only smirked back harder, and punched Steve in the ear. "You mean Agent 13. She was surveilling me, Nat."

 

"Protecting you," came her correction. "And her name's Sharon. She's nice."

 

"Uh, question." Bucky backed off for just a second and began circling the ring. "You still haven't taken advantage of your… change of circumstance yet, have you?"

 

With him in reverse gear, Steve was able to land a few hard punches. "No, I haven't."

 

That earned a frown. "Well, you should." With that frown came a flurry of hard responses to Steve's landed blows. One of them stuck, right on Steve's nose, and knocked him on his ass. Bucky flew into an immediate panic. "Shit, shit, shit! Sorry, Steve. I didn't pull the left enough." He helped Steve to his feet and then squinted into his face. It was a very old, very familiar expression on his face that Steve saw through the pulses of pain coming from his nose. "Oh, fuck me sideways. I broke it."

 

Steve snorted, sending blood spurting out of his nose. "What a colorful expression, Buck. But stop worrying. It'll heal." He reached up and slipped his nose straight, feeling it pop and instantly stop aching. It was probably already healing. He sniffed a few times, trying it out, and then smacked Bucky on the back. "That was a good combo. I don't remember that one."

 

Bucky shrugged, but still looked worried. "Assassin training. I think we're done for the day. Breaking your nose is a good sign that it's time to stop." Steve let him part the ropes and help him out of the ring, even if he didn't need it. He was feeling nostalgic.

 

Natasha in the meantime had been having a grand ole time. Actually, this had been the most work she'd been able to do since they'd locked Bucky up in his cell. She knew exponentially more about his training and combat style than she'd started with, but that wasn't why she'd enjoyed herself. She'd been more pleased with the other data, the results of all their hard work come to fruition. Bucky looked like a person up there.

 

He followed Steve from the ring wearing a wary frown. As they passed he stopped and grabbed her elbow, pulling her back. It felt like déjà vu, except this was the other frozen super-soldier this time. "Why didn't you do anything?" He glanced from her over at Steve's back receding down the hall. "Why didn't you tranquilize me?"

 

"Because you didn't do anything wrong," she replied quietly and patted his hand, earning release. She felt him watching her as she walked away. It didn't feel threatening.

 

Up the hall, Bucky's lack of presence was suddenly felt. Steve turned around, looking for him and found him following four steps behind Natasha looking sheepish. He had to investigate. "You got it?" He asked Sam, letting him rest against the wall instead of his shoulder for a second and jogging back down the hall. "What are you doing moping back here for? You won a round, I won a round. It went well."

 

No eye contact. "I'm sorry, Steve."

 

The only way he could respond to that kind of sullenness just then was to ignore it. Steve wrapped an arm around Bucky's shoulder like he was still grinning also and squeezed it into a (normally) bone-shattering hug. "No apologies necessary. I had a good time."

 

Bucky stopped walking and Steve lost control of the side-hug. He recovered as gracefully as possible and turned around. A pout was waiting for him. At least it was a pout with eye contact. "I'm serious, Steve. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm such an asshole. I'm still figuring stuff out." He scuffed the toe of his shoe against the ground and started sucking on his lips again.

 

Steve fought the urge to sigh and then to throw him across the basement. "I know that, Bucky. You think I don't know that? Come on, no more guilt." He tried to tug him along by the shoulders again, but failed yet again. Bucky was rooted to the spot.

 

"No."

 

"No?"

 

"I wanna apologize, Steve."

 

"You did. You have. I forgive you, Bucky, for everything and anything, past, present, and futu--" Steve, unlike Bucky, was not rooted to the spot. So, when that metal hand grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him forward, he followed, stumbling. And if he'd squeezed to an excessive amount earlier, so did Bucky just then. It was an epic hug, but more than that. Bucky had instigated it, held it, and didn't shy from the contact. After a few seconds, Steve could feel his chest shuddering next to his own. Bucky was crying. Steve freed one arm from the pin and wrapped it around to squeeze back. The other he used to pat the sobs away.

 

"I don't know why I'm crying," Bucky said thickly, pulling his head away and wiping a cheek on his shoulder. "Such a sap."

 

Steve laughed only to find himself choked up too. "Well, you're not alone there." The collar of Bucky's shirt was just as damp as Steve's. They'd just been crying all over each other. He glanced around to tell Natasha and Sam not to worry, they were fine, but the two of them were nowhere to be seen. He and Buck had the hallway to themselves, for their weepy use. "At least those two didn't see. They'd give us grief over this, though it's nothing to be ashamed of. Emotions like this are perfectly natura--"

 

"Oh, God, no more lectures, Steve. I've cried enough for one day." Bucky disentangled himself and then shoved Steve away. It was playful and Steve cuffed him right back. That devolved quickly into laughter and scuffling that would have killed a gorilla, until Steve's quips received only silence and Bucky slouched away from him. The gloom had returned. A passing cloud, Steve hoped.

 

"I can't be that way all the time, Steve. As much as I want to." He sounded tired and disappointed. Even his eyes looked duller and so suddenly. "There's just too much wrong with me."

 

A mood swing. That was all, Steve convinced himself. He smiled sadly and said, "not forever, Buck. We'll get you there in time. Come on. Let's go. I wanna see this video of Sam's. I bet you he hasn't deleted it. Are you up for keeping true to your threat?"

 

"Yeah," Bucky pulled a begrudging smile, "I'll follow through with the threat. And stick that phone where he won't be able to film us anymore."

 


	11. FRIENDSHIP pt. 2

The rest of the day passed without a hitch.

 

Dinner was, as usual, delicious. Afterwards, Bucky took his beer and jumped out of the front window to watch the sunset from atop the porch. The headphones went with him and he was unreachable for so long as there was light in the sky. But that was okay. That was how he'd been the past few evenings, spending some time alone, and everyone had adjusted to it. And Natasha had activated the GPS tracking on his phone if something went wrong.

 

The window clicked shut well after moonrise and he joined them in watching the news with only the light of the television parting the darkness. Growls and scoffs were kept to a bare minimum and the headphones were not employed even once. More so, Sam's cell phone was spared the indignity of being inserted inside of him, even after the video was played an obnoxious eighteen times. Bucky merely deleted it and chunked the phone into Sam's chest. It would bruise, but it was better than a trip to the emergency for a cell-phone-ectomy.

 

When it came time for the guys to perpetuate their illogical shower arrangement, Natasha acted as coin flip referee. Bucky lost the toss twice, ending up with last shower spot, but didn't throw a fit. Instead, he sat out front with her and practiced the two guitar chords Sam had taught him the past few days. He kept up with that while Sam waited for his shower, letting him correct his fingering, but soon lost his focus with Steve back out front. He watched the sketch develop on Steve's pad for a piece, but within a few minutes found Natasha's nail maintenance endeavor more interesting. Or rather, her nail polish.

 

"This looks nothing like gun-metal."

 

Steve looked up at that, a little grin on his face, and then promptly returned to his sketch. From across the coffee table, it looked like he was designing a new uniform. Bucky shook the bottle of grey polish and then his head.

 

"The names of nail polish aren't exactly given to be accurate. More pithy." Natasha sifted through her bag and pulled out a rich velvety red. Bucky took it from her before she could open it.

 

"Heartbreaker?" He smirked. "That's red. Why can't they just call it what it is?"

 

"Well, it's _heartbreaker_ red, unlike this… uh, apparently, juicy apple red."

 

Bucky regarded the two bottles with a raised eyebrow, handed her heartbreaker red back, and then began rifling through the other bottles, reading out the ones that amused him. "Russian roulette, wow… Cherry pop… _Orange-gasm_? What's happening?"

 

Steve snickered along with Natasha until the 'orange-gasm' came up and then he promptly changed the subject. "I gotta say, Nat, I'm surprised that you're wearing nail polish. I mean, you've never worn it before."

 

"Pssh, Nude Beach."

 

Natasha ignored the continued stream of polish names. "Oh, well, that would be because normally I always chip them right after I paint them by going on assignment. But here, I won't. It's nice!" She smiled to herself and let the brush draw a thick layer of heartbreaker over her pinkie nail. It look deliciously poisonous.

 

"Mink muffs? Christ, that says Post-coital. No. Post- _Coral_. Big difference, lurid pun."

 

"Well, that's great. I'm happy for you… just maybe make it quick." He nodded towards Bucky, now with his face screwed up in disgust and fascination.

 

"Boom boom room? That's pink. Where do you get… boom… boom… room? That's ridiculous."

 

Natasha swallowed a grin and finished her left hand. Steve was getting impatient, but Bucky was fine. He was perhaps even enjoying himself snarking off.

 

"Trophy wife. These people are kidding, aren't they? That's insulting… oh, Armed and Dangerous. Now that one's appropriate." He set a bottle of army green polish on the table. "A pun and accurately descriptive." He glanced over at Steve, pride at his witticism poorly concealed on his supposed-to-be-snide face. Steve provided the obligatory, affirming nod and grin and Bucky turned back to the nail polish bag. It was adorable. But Natasha had to stop the roll call.

 

"Maybe I should paint yours that color," she chirruped and batted her eyes over at him. Bucky recoiled as if she'd jabbed a hot poker at him. "We can do Steve's later together. Though, for him I think only red, white and blue would do."

 

"It's true," Steve agreed without a blink, "it's stars and stripes or nothing for me."

 

Bucky caught onto the joke and rolled his eyes. "Well, it'd look pretty stupid on me. Just one hand with army green nails."

 

"It's not like we couldn't paint on the metal," Natasha replied off-hand, more focused now on getting her left hand to paint her right. It was the extended silence that finally caught her attention. When she looked up, Bucky was carefully removing all the polish bottles from her bag and lining them up on the table in a color gradient. She wondered at what he was doing while struggling with the last few right-hand nails and then worked it out when he started pulling forward the pearly pinks, blues and whites.

 

"You could paint nails on my metal hand," he announced without a hint of bashfulness or gender-shame soon after, shaking a bottle of Eggshell Delight. Steve hummed along absent-mindedly and then looked up, shrugging his affirmative when Natasha caught his eye. "Make it look less… gun-metal."

 

Natasha blew on her nails and accepted the bottle from Bucky. "Sure. I can do that, though the light blush in your other hand will look more like real nails."

 

He looked at his right hand and then shrugged, exchanging the polishes. "Will it stay?"

 

"We'll find out pretty quickly."

 

And find out they did. Both hands laid out on Natasha's knees, Bucky kept perfectly still while she copied his natural nails as best as possible onto his cybernetic hand. The polish dried a little more quickly than on organic nails and stuck fast. There were a few places where Natasha had to use a remover to touch up just seconds later. When they were finished, Bucky thanked her quietly and then stared at his hands with a mixture of rue and longing on his face. He hadn't openly mourned his left arm prior to this. It was unclear what had prompted it and what it meant, but both Natasha and Steve left him to have his moment.

 

A few minutes later, while Natasha was lathering the same blood-red heartbreaker varnish on her toenails, Bucky slid closer to her on the couch and watched with fascination as she painted.

 

"Doesn't that feel strange?" He asked eventually, pointing to her toe-separaters.

 

"A little, but not unpleasant." She bit her lip to focus on the tiniest pinkie toe, only to stop when she felt him watching again. He was peering at her toes.

 

"Your feet are so… smooth." He didn't touch, but his face was certainly close enough to see the texture of her feet. His head was blocking her view actually.

 

"She takes care of her feet," Steve chimed in, now facing them, sketchbook on his knees and pencil in between his teeth. "Healthy feet, happy soldier. Or agent."

 

"Yeah, I remember." Bucky leaned back, putting his own up on the table and wiggling his toes in his socks. It was like he just remembered that he had them. The socks were gone in a moment or so and he was inspecting his own feet. "I just don't think Dr. Jensen did."

 

"Dr. Jensen?"

 

Bucky looked up a little confused and then elaborated, "my medical handler in HYDRA. He wore a bowtie. And he didn't give a shit about my feet. Or much else."

 

"Yeah, I remember," Steve grumbled, jaw suddenly locked tight.

 

"That's okay. We can take care of that. Here." Natasha patted her knee and capped her heartbreaker polish. Bucky hesitated for a second, eyes narrowed at her, but eventually – and this was the significant part – without looking at Steve put a foot on her lap. In reality, they weren't that bad. She and Steve and Sam had seen to that when they were still in Banner's bunker and Bucky was still comatose. He'd kept the basic level of cleanliness up on his own, there were just a few general pedicure upkeeps Natasha could do. And she did. Clint always liked having a little attention to his feet and hands when he could get Natasha to sit still long enough to provide it, so she was used to it and pretty damn good at it too. By the time she was finished, Bucky's eyes were closed and Steve had stopped drawing.

 

It was so peaceful, Natasha hesitated to disrupt it. But she did anyways. "All finished."

 

Bucky opened his eyes lazily and kicked off his feet, stretching them out onto the table instead and laying back into the couch. "Thanks."

 

"You seemed to enjoy that," Steve commented and scooted to their side of the couch.

 

"That would be because I did. I felt fucking fantastic. She could charge for that."

 

Natasha fluttered her brow, when Steve looked over, and then leaned over to clean up her toes' polish in a few spots. She was damn good.

 

"You should have her do yours too. That is, if she wants to," Bucky added quickly. "I'll rub yours to pay you back, Natasha. If memory serves… I'm pretty good at that."

 

Natasha looked over at him just in time to see the end of a roguish smirk flitting from his face. Steve was rolling his eyes beside him. _A little bit of a smooth operator there, huh?_ Natasha shrugged. _Why the hell not?_ And slipped to the floor to lean against the coffee table, balancing a newly polished foot on Bucky's lap and taking the clippers to Steve's. Bucky was not wrong. He knew how to give a foot massage. She would not be sharing with anyone just the extent of how _good_ it was, though if they asked, she couldn't deny. After a while she couldn't even tell that one hand was metal, warm as it was from the heat of her foot.

 

Sam emerged from their bathroom whistling as Natasha was just finishing Steve's first foot. "What is this? I missed the mani-pedi club meeting?"

 

"Natasha gave me fingernails," Bucky announced and held up his left hand. "And took care of my feet," he added when Sam looked intrigued. "They were neglected. Now they are not."

 

"Nice. Count me in. I haven't had my feet done in too long. Now, where do I sit? Steve you got mine while I get Buck's? Yeah?"

 

Natasha chuckled and waved him away. "I'll get to you after I finish with Steve. For now, you can take Bucky's place while he goes to shower. I assume you can give a decent foot massage, because, as Bucky has established, that is from here on out my payment for pedi-services rendered."

 

As suggested, Bucky slipped from under her foot after giving her heel one more squeeze and headed for the back. It was the least scowly departure for the shower he'd managed so far. Natasha was a little sad to see him go. He really could give a _good_ foot massage. By the time they finally heard the water shut off, everyone's feet were pageant-ready and Natasha was foot-rubbed into a pleasant kind of stupor. For once, she could have gone to sleep when they did. When Bucky didn't return and the steam stopped leaking out from under their door, Steve lugged himself upright and went yawning to bed, thanking Natasha as he did. Sam stayed a while, watching infomercials with heavy eyelids, before excusing himself and half-sleep-walking to his own room.

 

All alone in the front, Natasha felt her mind wake up again. She cursed under her breath, turning off the television and picking up her laptop. She should have moseyed off when Steve did. She could have slept then. Frustrated, she texted Clint and retreated to her room. Hopefully he was awake still and hadn't fallen into a food-induced coma already. She was half-way to her room when she realized that she'd left her pedikit in the front. It was too late by then, she wasn't turning back. It would have to wait to be cleaned up until the morning.

 

* * *

 

Something about knowing that those polish bottles were sitting out in the living room, just begging to be knocked over and broken kept Natasha awake even after Clint had fallen asleep on the line. They haunted her. Every time she closed her eyes, managed to get rid of whatever disturbing imaged popped up to fill the inside of her eyelids, and focused on her heartbeat slowing, she heard them clacking. That noise she knew to be impossible. The house was locked, the windows shut, no person or wind was out there to push them over and break them. And yet, she heard the crack of glass on wood, on stone, on glass. Her mind was going to torture her with that sound until she went out there and put the nail polish away.

 

With a not quite silent enough growl, Natasha slipped out from under her blankets and grabbed her phone for a light. She just wouldn't tell Clint that she'd done it. When she really wanted to, she could lie even to him, and right at that moment she did not want to lose that bet or go a night without sleep. So clean 'em up and lie convincingly it was. After that she could deal with whatever deep-seated issue it was that was making her hear not-put-away nail polish bottles clattering.

 

Or maybe she'd do that first. Because it was not her imagination or even her issue. It was Bucky. It was Bucky and his deep-seated issue.

 

From her doorway she could tell it was him without a shadow of a doubt, even in the midnight gloom. That was because the whole length of his metal arm was casting a ray of refracted moonlight onto the opposite wall. He was sitting, shirt tossed aside, at the front window with a handful of nail polish bottles arrayed on the cushion beside him. As his back was turned to her, Natasha couldn't make out quite what he was doing, but she did know that he was focused hard enough on that left arm that he didn't notice her tiptoe out of her room.

 

Halfway across the front rooms, it became painfully clear what he was doing. His back and shoulders were folded in on his chest, neck twisted and right arm stretched, all to bring his left shoulder into view. The bottle of Gun-metal grey sat open by his right knee. Natasha could smell it from twelve feet away. He didn't hear her until after she saw just what his effort had wrought. The red star was half covered, painted over to match the rest of his arm. He didn't try to hide it, like Natasha had expected. Bucky only gazed at her with big puppy-dog eyes, tried his best to look like everything was alright, and then ducked his head in silent tears.

 

Lashing out in anger to conceal to shame and guilt Natasha understood. Also sulky indifference and false bravado to cover up the pain. But actual, unfiltered emotion, the act of submitting to the first response she was not prepared to handle. He was in mental anguish, lung wracking, jaw quivering, eye melting psychological pain, and she had no idea how to console him. Obviously, it was somehow tied to his past as the Winter Soldier. Something had prompted him to wake up and sneak out there and paint over the symbol of his weaponhood. But what that was would remain a mystery until he chose to explain. And at that moment, he was indisposed to explaining, so Natasha was unable to work him through it. She made do with sitting beside him, capping the polish and patting his back.

 

He looked at her again then with an expression that caused her physical pain. She knew that kind of torment, and deeply wanted to soothe it away for him. But all she had at her disposal was the comfort of her presence. He might be working through some horrible truths, but wasn't alone in that. She ran her hand over his back and shoulder a few more times with quiet shushes until his sobbing stopped, and was taken entirely by surprise when he hugged her.

 

The sobbing had not been as subdued as Bucky probably would have wanted. It's gasps and sniffles found their way back down the hall when the polish clacking had not, and had set Steve into panic-mode when he found the other bed empty. Out in the hallway, he'd calmed down substantially upon finding Natasha already taking care of the situation and his heart nearly melted when the hug happened. Behind him Sam watched as well, grin visible even in the low light as Steve glanced back. Natasha looked like a cat in a cardboard tube at first when Bucky looped his arms around her, but she'd relaxed once the hug didn't end up squashing her internal organs. She'd even patted his head into her shoulder and let him cry there for a stretch, smoothing his hair and mumbling little words that Steve didn't recognize. Natasha could literally be anyone for any person. Right that minute, she could be gentle, affectionate, and sheltering for broken, vulnerable Bucky. It was curing to see and Steve was soon calm and lulled almost back to sleep on his feet. He didn't need to worry. Natasha would take care of it. Turning around, he found Sam already gone, and his bed awaited him warm and inviting.

 

Back on the window seat, Bucky eventually dried the tears and cued up the embarrassment. He pulled away and mumbled excuses and hid his face unsuccessfully behind his much shorter hair. Natasha let it happen, waited for him to flush that response out as well. When he was still again and his mouth had unhitched from being knotted up into a gentle frown, she opened up the gun-metal grey polish and gently tugged his left arm her way. He allowed a couple doleful blinks before complying and continued watching with big, sad eyes as she finished painting over the star for him.

 

"It's worse at night," he whispered.

 

Natasha nodded, dipping the brush again. "I know."

 

"I can't block them all out at night. When it's quiet and I'm alone, they slip back. Or I wander back to them. During the day I can fight them off. Without music or talking or things to do I can't distract myself from them. I get lost again. At night, all I can feel is helplessness."

 

"So you came out here to do something about it."

 

"It was that or wake Steve up with my weeping. Or worse."

 

Natasha tapped his shoulder lightly. Her finger came away clean. She looked for the army green polish and a gold. "Anger's never your first response. It's the sadness or fear first, isn't it?"

 

He nodded with downcast eyes.

 

"It's okay to be vulnerable. Weakness isn't shameful. Neither is helplessness. Though you're neither, no matter how much you're feeling that way." She shook the army green polish till the clicking seemed too loud. "And it's okay to allow yourself to feel those things. To feel miserable. Sometimes, that's just necessary. You just have to fight from letting them consume you. Trust me."

 

He seemed recovered when Natasha looked up from her three curved stripes in green. The little furrow between his brows returned. It deepened and swept upward as she set about painting the borders in gold. "My Commandos' wing."

 

"A reimagining of it. Yep. You've worn one past on that arm for quite long enough. I thought maybe you could wear the other for a while."

 

The smile proved Natasha right. It crinkled his eyes just enough to let them look both happy and sad simultaneously. It was impossible to know if he'd learned it from Steve or Steve from him, but it was the same expression. "It's probably about time. Thank you, Natasha."

 

"You're welcome, Bucky," she said, slipping from the bench, kissing him on the cheek as she went. Now they were even.

 

* * *

 

Sam hadn't slept well that night, even before the sounds of sobbing dragged him from bed to investigate their source. And he didn't sleep well afterwards either, or the next night, or the night after that, or any night that week in reality. By the fourth night, Sam decided that it had to be because of the weird semi-anxiety of being on-call. Because, he would lie down in his bed bone tired with heavy eyes one minute, only to wake up another in a lather, his mind going a mile a minute. It was just like overseas.

 

And just like overseas, the sounds of battle didn't help to let him rest. Buck's nightmares, when they happened to pop up again, sent shivers of combat hospital flashbacks down Sam's spine. And once he heard him toss and turn or pummel the wall, he couldn't stop hearing. He was awake for the full show. He'd hear everything that followed: the muffled crying, the tinny whispers of Buck's headphones, the soft tones of Steve waking up and consoling him. The walls had to be paper thin in this place, or the vents connected the rooms. Something, because Sam heard every damn thing. And he could never just get over what he heard.

 

Then there were the nights when he couldn't just lie there and listen. He'd end up seeing and hearing, and he could never just get over that either. One night, after what Sam had thought had been a really good day for everyone, Sam jumped awake to the sounds of Buck violently crying. Most nights it was audible but just because he couldn't breathe and was gasping for air. This night he was basically wailing. It sounded like he was panicking and Sam clambered out of bed to assist if need be in restraining him. But by the time he cracked their door open the crying had stopped entirely. Buck sat, sniffling still as proof that Sam hadn't imagined that horror, beside Steve on his bed, both looking out the window. The silhouette they threw reminded Sam of two children. Enormous children, but scared boys all the same.

 

Steve was talking quietly, a hand on Buck's back while Buck listened, arms wrapped around his legs pressed to his chest, chin on his knees. A spiritually-fortifying speech, by the sound of it. Sam didn't stick around to intrude further, or hear the point. Whatever had sent Buck over the edge, Steve was taking care of it. But taken care of or not, the idea of it kept Sam awake for hours afterward, even once he couldn't hear Steve anymore.

 

And if that wasn't bad enough, the mantra of 'I'm Bucky Barnes. I choose who I am. I'm Bucky Barnes,' that floated through the apartment on other nights was the worst. It left Sam feeling sick, really, all of it. Because Buck seemed so far from that stage during the days, poor guy. He'd smile at least once a day, snark off and help out, sometimes even laugh again. He seemed like he had recovered, but the nights demonstrated otherwise. Sam had said it before though, it's not a one-way street. And he knew that personally. On the nights that he did fall back to sleep eventually, he then had his own nightmares to contend with.

 

Luckily or unluckily – it could go either way – Sam wasn't asleep then, that night the call came and its alarm went blaring through the apartment the first time. Somehow, though, Nat still beat him to the dispatch message.

 

"Carbon monoxide, in a dorm," she barked to her bedraggled and anxious audience. Socks went slipping across wood floors as they made a mad dash to get ready. Nat's random drills over the week had paid off, though. They were in the truck and hauling towards the campus in under three minutes.

 

It was pretty easy to pick out which dorm was the one that called in, its lawn littered with students in various states of undress as it was. Most of them were huddled in gendered groups, shivering. The night was cooler than it had been and Sam ended up not feeling the normal sheen of sweat that came with wearing the suit.

 

As usual, Nat took the lead, marching straight up to the dormitory entrance, mask and tank in hand. Sam followed with Steve and then finally Buck bringing up the rear. There was a muttered chorus to their approach. Something along the lines of 'whoa, new firefighters' and 'damn, that first guy is fine.' Stares accompanied. At least Steve had remembered his face and Buck his hand. That could have been a disaster.

 

"…detector's usually faulty. It's done this half a dozen times since I've lived here, but it was right once so we always evacuate." The RA looked like she'd had just about enough of this nonsense.

 

"That's always a good call," Steve assured her, with a Nat-cringingly Cap-like voice. He gave a firm nod, pulled his mask on, and marched past her and inside.

 

"Keep your students a good distance from the building," Nat drawled. "We'll check and be out soon. D, James." Mask also pulled on, she waved Sam and Bucky inside in Steve's footsteps. "D, with me. Hal, James take the south wing, we'll take the north. Reset the detectors as you go, if you get no reading. If you do… that's a different protocol."

 

They didn't have to employ that different protocol, though. There was no CO in the building, not even a blip on the meters, and they were all in the entrance hall again soon. Nat gave the go-ahead and students spilled back into the dorm, the four of them trudging back to the truck and stripping off gear. They drove back to the firehouse yawning. Buck even had his eyes closed.

 

"That wasn't bad at all," Sam heard himself saying.

 

"No. It was literally a false alarm."

 

"But if it hadn't have been, we would have done fine as well," Steve said, itching at his holomask. "Your prep drills have done their job, Natasha."

 

"Even if they were a pain in the ass," Buck mumbled as Nat was thanking Steve. He peeled open an eye and smirked at her.

 

"My specialty," she replied. It was true, though, they were well-prepared to do this job.

 

Sam slept like a rock the rest of that night. That gave him an idea.

 

The next morning, after group yoga – which was Sam's favorite part of the day, because although Steve was surprisingly flexible, Buck was not and that was hilarious – he pulled Buck aside to maybe resolve his sleep issues as well. If Sam had slept better after facing what was causing him anxiety, Buck might too.

 

"Are you going shit on me for not being able to touch my toes again, Sam? Because if you are I will save you the trouble: I'm a ridiculous, muscle-bound man-child who whines when he can't do something. There. Happy?"

 

Sam covered his mouth to keep from smiling. It was an accurate description, but not what he wanted to say. At that moment. "Well, I am happy, but– no, no, listen." He grabbed Buck's elbow as he rolled his eyes and turned away. "No, I'm actually being serious here. We'll come back to your flexibility issues another time." Buck pushed his hair from his face and crossed his arms. At least he was listening. "No, I wanted to ask you why, if you're still having trauma problems, you don't talk with us about them."

 

He went from purse-lipped and disinterested to completely closed-off in a split second. His jaw worked as Buck regarded Sam. Something was happening in there. Before the stare-off was decided, Steve called over if anyone wanted coffee. Buck shifted his weight, his mouth twitching between forced smile and frown. Then, he sighed. "I don't want to think about it. I don't have a choice at night, and you hear what happens at night."

 

Steve appeared at Sam's elbow then. "What going on? I asked if you two wanted coffee."

 

"Sam wants me to talk about my shit. My mental shit."

 

Steve looked between them. "So that's a 'yes' then." He strode off and began pouring cups. Sam turned back to Buck.

 

"I do hear what happens at night and that's why I'm mentioning it. Maybe if you worked through whatever was causing that at night during the day, productively, when you can use your coping mechanisms still instead of repressing the issues, you might not have to deal with them seeping back at night."

 

The arm whirred hard for a second, but Buck nodded. "Alright, I can tell you about it." He marched over and sat down at the table beside Steve, cup in hand. "Where do you want me to start?"

 

"How about with just what happens at night?"

 

Buck leaned forward onto his elbows, eyes on the table and sighed loudly through his teeth. "Everything bleeds together at night."

 

"And it doesn't during the day?"

 

"No. It does, at times. But I can stem it with distractions. There are no distractions at night besides the other things scratching at my mind. If I lie there long enough I can't tell which is which, what I want to let out and what needs to be locked down. So, eventually, something comes through."

 

"Like what?"

 

"Memories. Pain, guilt, fear. It doesn't matter. They all hurt."

 

"It does matter. You have to deal with them or they'll keep having power over you, Buck. The last thing you want to do is ignore them. They only build up in the box you store them away in then." Steve shifted in his chair across from Sam, but he kept his focus on Buck. "Why don't you start with what you remember that's hurting you?"

 

He looked angry for a split second but his brow crumpled quickly. "What's hurting me of what I remember? I remember _everything_. That's the problem. I remember every single thing I've done with these hands, whether it was me directing them or not. I remember how it all felt. It's crystal clear now. Every time I close my eyes or let my mind go blank, they pop back up. Sometimes good, sometimes bad. They both are raw."

 

"Bucky? Why would good memories bother you?" Steve asked, hurt in his voice, before Sam could stop him. "Do you regret–"

 

"I don't regret doing them, Steve. It's nothing like that." Buck replied easily, with a shake of his head. "I regret ruining them. Or losing them… it depends on who you blame."

 

"But you remember them, Buck." Once Steve got started, nobody could stop him. "I'd say that's pretty far from lost. As to ruined… I don't know how you could–"

 

"No. You don't." The anger flared bright but quick. Buck continued after rubbing his face clear. "Remembering everything means I can look back and see the path. I can also see the other paths, the ones I didn't get to take that should have followed those memories. Those are ruined. They never got to happen. So what came before feels ruined too. Wasted."

 

Sam sighed. Buck was on the what-if train, just like Steve had been. "I understand mourning lost opportunities, Buck. But that kind of thinking does you no good."

 

"Do you? Do you understand lost opportunities? Did you lose decades of your life?" Anger was always Buck's outlet. Why wasn't it at night? Sam would have to look into that.

 

"Not decades, no, but I did squander time. And I lost friends. You think I don't wonder what would have happened if I didn't do x, y, and z? If my fellow soldiers hadn't been killed? Unless you've got a time machine, man, contemplating causalities of your past is futile. More time wasted."

 

Buck snorted, but didn't respond. Natasha stepped in instead. "It is healthy, to an extent, to mourn things lost, however. Don't let me step on your toes, Sam, but Bucky should be allowed to lament the part of his life that he lost. And then, accept that loss."

 

"No, you're right. As long as you move past it in time." He paused, weighed the moment, then continued. "What do you feel is most… ruined?"

 

He scoffed, but it was a feint. "I don't… I have… fuck. I don't know."

 

"Come on, Buck. Talk about it…"

 

"I–I… it's all a jumbled up mess. It doesn't make sense to wade in there." When no one responded, he sucked on his teeth and growled. "Fine. I said before that I wasn't him anymore. That I wasn't Bucky from before, but that wasn't true. I just… wasn't letting that part come through because it confused me. Now, I know I was healing and now I… _am_ him again, with the other shit mixed in. But that other shit, as damning as it is, doesn't change that I wanted things that now I can't fucking have. I can't–I can't make my dad proud. Or my mother. I can't save up to buy my mom a house. I can't… I had ambitions, okay? And they're squandered. They're dead and gone and I'm fucking stuck here, a fucked up ex-assassin with enough blood on my hands to drown myself in. I can't even save my best friend anymore! That's all I was good at! He's fucking Captain America, and I'm… I'm the enemy! I'm a liability. I'm fucked up. Who wants to deal with this?"

 

There were tears in his eyes as he glared around at them, daring anyone to disagree.

 

"No one!" His voice broke, jaw shivering. "None of you want to deal with this. It's a chore. Something you get through. I'm a pain in the goddamned ass, I know." He laughed out of nowhere with no humor to the sound. "I'm still ruining lives! You'll just be three more in my disgustingly long resume. So, yeah, I think back to being just Bucky and I fucking wish I was still him. That all I cared about was keeping Steve's scrawny ass in one piece and talking up girls. Instead I get to relive ending dozens of lives and being electrocuted until my eyeballs sizzled. I don't get happy memories and a long life to comfort me. I get torture in a HYDRA cave and the unending fear that I might forget myself again and kill more people. And what's worse, I wake up in a world that is decaying, and a lot of it because of me. I have three people to rely on and in doing so, I'm hurting them. Wouldn't you cry at night?"

 

He knuckled his eyes hard and shook his head. "Fuck. I just want to be happy. I want to be happy and easy for you guys to deal with. I want to be whole again. That's it. I can let the other shit go. I'll never marry or live a real life. I can deal with that. If I can just be fucking content as I am." He fought with himself for a moment, doleful gaze on Steve. "I'm trying, Steve. I'm better now more than bad, right?" Steve nodded hard, unable to actually talk apparently. Tears spilled again as Buck watched him. "Why couldn't you have just stayed at home and collected tin cans?"

 

"Okay, okay. That was good Buck. Good job sharing." Sam had to do something. He had to rein all that back in. Steve looked wounded and Buck was on the verge of a mental break, it sounded like. "You faced a lot just then. You did great."

 

"He could have stayed at home," Buck whipped around to Sam. "If he'd stayed at home, he would have had a life and I would have died when I was meant to. Then none of this would have happened. I would have saved him, a soldier in a war. I'd be a war hero, on a memorial somewhere. And he'd have grandchildren. Happy little Rogers running around with asthma and idealistic wide eyes. I'd have done my job." He was openly crying again, tears streaming down his face. "I was awake when they cut my arm away. The fall only ripped it to a few inches above my elbow. The Russians cut it all the way past the shoulder. It smelled like burning hair and felt like fire. I remember all that now too…" He trailed off as Steve's chair scraped away from the table, turned and watched dully as Steve walked from the room. "Now I've done that. This was why I hadn't told you. I only hurt now. Now everyone feels like trampled shit."

 

He stood quickly and followed Steve to their room, closing the door behind him. Sam felt the air go from him as their voices picked up behind the walls, low and distraught. That had not gone as planned.

 

* * *

 

 

Needless to say, Steve was not in a good place as he left the living room.

 

He'd been blaming himself for what happened to Bucky for years now. The fact that he was still alive hadn't changed that. Everyone in that apartment knew that. But apparently he'd been blaming himself for the wrong thing. It was always his failure to save him on that train that he'd focused on. It had never occurred to Steve that _succeeding_ in saving him from the HYDRA base could be considered what had doomed Bucky. It never crossed his mind that Bucky dying in Germany in '43 was a better alternative to anyone. But there it was. Bucky, at least once, had thought that Steve staying home and staying small would have been far preferable to him becoming the man that saved him.

 

But Bucky didn't resent Steve for becoming Captain America. He'd never shown a lick of that before… Had he?

 

Had he just been hiding it?

 

A weight on the bed beside him drew Steve from the rabbit hole he was tumbling down. For a long time neither of them said anything. Steve stared at his hands and wondered over what he had done with them. That must be a little piece of what Bucky felt all the time.

 

But Steve had the comfort of knowing that, in the long run, his actions were for the greater good. They had to be. And he'd made the right decision by going to war and saving Bucky. History proved that eight times out of ten. And there in that apartment they were going to rehabilitate the ninth even if they couldn't undo its scars. The tenth would be as it was.

 

No, Bucky could feel whatever he wanted and Steve would support him, because he loved his friend, but he'd done the right thing in '43. It was on the train where he'd failed. It was that train. Always that train.

 

"I'm not ungrateful, Steve." Bucky's voice was soft now. "I could never say I'm not grateful to you for saving my life. I just wished more for you. I wanted you safe, that's all."

 

"I am safe, Bucky."

 

"Do you feel safe in this time? Did you feel safe at war? You'll never be safe again, Steve. That's what I wanted you to avoid."

 

"And _I_ wanted _you_ safe. Now were even."

 

"Yeah. Real even."

 

It fell silent again between them. Steve felt his eyes prickling. They were even, alright. But not exactly in a good way. At least they weren't either of them alone.

 

"I don't blame you. I know that came out sounding like I blamed you, but I don't. You should know that too." Bucky voice was turning a little surly. The petulance was coming, either out of frustration or embarrassment. "I just wanted you safe. That was my _job_."

 

"That's the thing about friendship, Buck. Feelings like that work both ways." Bucky ducked his head when Steve turned to send his point home. "I wanted you safe too. And I got that… for a while. And now I have it again," he added quickly before his voice betrayed him. "Bucky? You… you didn't–don't resent me for what I did by becoming Captain America, do you? For…for–"

 

"Stealing my limelight?" Buck filled in for him, words dripping with sarcasm. "God, no. It wasn't attention that I wanted from being over there and you being at home. I just wanted you–"

 

"Safe. I know. You've said it enough."

 

Bucky smiled at the snark in Steve's voice, swayed a little for effect when Steve elbowed him. "Yeah, you know. I know you know. We both know… I did resent them doing that to you, though."

 

"What?"

 

He scoffed and rubbed his thumb over his lip before answering, like he used to do when he found something funny, but not in a good way. "For taking advantage of your good heart and turning you into a… well, a living weapon." His mouth bunched at the irony, lids fell heavy as he glanced away.

 

"I understand that resentment."

 

"Yeah, figured you would. But you were still you, so it worked out for me. You on the other hand…" he gestured over himself, "drew the short straw and have to deal with this basket case."

 

"It was already a hard job. I'm used to it by now."

 

Bucky rolled his eyes, shaking his head as Steve chuckled softly. "Alright, alright. I set myself up for that one. I'm a pain in the ass, just like you."

 

"That's right. That's why we're friends." As remiss as he was to spoil the good banter and mood, there was a serious point to this and Steve needed to make it. "And even if it were above and beyond difficult, it's worth the effort. We all are glad to be here. You're not ruining anyone's life." Bucky nodded, bumping his shoulder into Steve's, but knit up his mouth. He might have accepted what Steve said, but he was not going to talk about that matter.

 

Steve sat, a little restless, and clamped onto the edge of his mattress. He felt the shield, strapped underneath his bed, at his fingertips and drummed them against it. There was more, maybe less pleasant to confront. "Hey, Buck. Should I have been letting you talk at night? Did I do the wrong thing by trying to distract you?"

 

Bucky glanced over and shrugged. "That's a question for Freud out there. _I_ felt better being distracted… but, uh, I hardly know my name half the time at night, so… unreliable testimony right here."

 

"Like that's anything new." Steve rocked at Bucky's shove. "No, but on a serious note, I'll try getting you to talk through it next time. That way I'm helping you heal, instead of helping you… uh, repress. That's the term, isn't it?"

 

"Hell if I know. I was frozen too, you know. And, _apparently_ , a moron to boot."

 

"I think stupid is the term that'll cover it. You don't want to be _too_ harsh on yourself."

 

" _Oh, no_. Best not to form new bad habits."

 

"And it may not even be your fault. Honestly, you probably just born that–" Steve stopped snarking off when he caught sight of Natasha smirking in the door way. Bucky followed his eyes and then stood up to stretch.

 

"You two done insulting one another and ready to come eat breakfast?" She leaned away from the door jamb and made space as Bucky approached.

 

"No. That'll never get old. But I could eat. While you're here, you wanna take a swing? This morning I'm a functional imbecile and… Steve is… well, he's Steve. Do we need to say anything else?" He left, one more smart-alecky glance tossed over his shoulder.

 

"You alright?" Natasha was blocking the door now. "He's snide and frisky this morning, but you seem withdrawn. His mood swings getting to you?"

 

"No, I'm fine."

 

Her arm barred his path, eyes seeing right through him, a hint of disappointment narrowing them. "Steve…"

 

"I'm working on it. Promise. His… his comment about me staying out of the war made me realize some things and stirred up the guilt-silt, but it's settling again." She still didn't budge. "I'll be fine, promise."

 

"Now _that_ I believe. You will be fine. We all will be. I'm seeing to that." She threaded her arm through his and around his waist. "Now, come on. Sam made sticky buns."

 

* * *

 

Nine hours, three meals and two exceptional reminders of his physical limitations later, Sam was exhausted and in desperate need of a beer and a shower. He only got one for now. Bucky had drawn first turn in the shower and Sam had come to terms with that fact that he, third spot, would be taking his in cold water. That was if there was any water left at all.

 

"Stop being so dramatic, Sam. Bucky's gotten better about it. I bet he's in there for under thirty minutes this time." Steve was in a good mood. A really good mood. It was a little annoying. Beer spilled on Sam's lap as his massive, sledgehammer of a hand came slamming into Sam's back. "Oops. Spilled a little there. It's your turn."

 

They were playing rummy. Or rather he and Nat were playing rummy. Steve was playing something, but not rummy successfully. That didn't seem to matter to him. He was a unquenchable ball of sunshine and sass, had been since breakfast. Sam laid down a few cards on Nat's run and waited. She looked between the two of them with unconcealed pleasure and rummy-ed out. It was her third win in a row. Nat won everything.

 

"Wow, great hand, Nat. I…I… well, I lost. That's… fifty points to you." Steve handed over his cards and grinned. It was just too much.

 

"Okay, Steve, seriously. I love that you're in a good place and all, but it is becoming insufferable. What is going on?"

 

He shrugged and accepted his fresh hand from Nat. "I had a good day."

 

"This is what you're like on a good day? Damn, man, what are you like on a great day? What kind of blinding joy-a-thon happens on Christmas?"

 

"Now, Samuel, are you being bitter because Bucky handed you your ass in the ring today?" He used his dad voice. It was absurd.

 

Buck had handed Sam his ass, they both had. In the ring, which was a little embarrassing just the sheer degree of the beat-down, but they had capped it off by lapping him twice on the evening jog and, yeah, Sam was being a bit of a sore-loser about it. Sure. Whatever. "No. I'm the picture of humility. You're just unnecessarily happy. I think you're over-doing it for some reason. I think you're compensating."

 

Nat scoffed next to him, but didn't say anything. Steve frowned momentarily. "I'm _hurt_ , Sam, that you would accuse me of lying. Especially when it's you who is doing the lying. Just admit you're sore over losing _atrociously_ and move on." He was such a giant sack of sass sometimes.

 

"I'm actually _awesome_ , at everything. You two are just freaks. Anyway, moving on… that's a friggin full run. Boom. Suck it." He laid down a run of six cards and sat back, sipping his beer. Nat book-ended his run with her own two. Sam rolled his eyes. He couldn't win. "Nat, do you cheat, or are you actually psychic."

 

She looked up under her lashes, simper playing at her lips. "What do you think?"

 

Steve chuckled and laid down a single card. He was horrible at this game. "She's a master spy, Sam. She's as close to psychic as they come. And going back a few beats… what's got a bee in your bonnet? You're a little… well, it seems like Bucky's sour mug has moved on to you. I think he's smiled more than you today."

 

"Yeah, he's just a paragon of healthy emotional responses today." Steve was right, Sam did sound a little bitter. But they didn't have to be such assholes about their athleticism. He looked up to find Steve looking at him, head cocked to the side and brow raised. He was judging him. "Alright, okay. I'm a horrible loser. I don't like being shown up. I'm a perfectionist. All those things. Alright? Happy?" He did actually feel better for admitting that. His shoulders even loosened.

 

Steve beamed. "Yes. And _yes_. Bucky is good today, guys. I think he may have turned a corner this morning. And all thanks to you, Sam." He was suddenly crushing Sam's ribs into his lungs.

 

"You're suffocating him, Steve." Nat shuffled the deck and watched the two of them with mild amusement.

 

"Sorry. I'm just so grateful. And thrilled." He smacked Sam's back, like that would undo the bruising to his internal organs. "He's Bucky again."

 

"He's been Bucky the whole time, Steve," Nat reminded him.

 

"No, I know. I know. He is who he is and I will accept him regardless. And the mood swings struck here and there. I know he's still working through things. It's different, though. He's acting like himself more and more. He's being a sarcastic jerk again!" The amount of excitement he packed into that final statement was impressive.

 

"So, this is him?" Sam asked. "This is the original model? Really? All this stuff, even the whole Debby Downer routine? I had thought he was little less… gloomy. Even his humor is dark, Steve."

 

"No, that's basically him." Steve downed the rest of his beer and ambled to the fridge. "Especially after he was deployed. Buck's always been a little on the down-key, skeptical side of things. The war just exacerbated it. Besides the on-a-dime, one-eighty turns in mood, he seems about the same now."

 

Sam accepted the beer offered on Steve's return, but considered him hard. It was his turn to be skeptical. "Are you sure? Are you not maybe letting that optimism of yours skew your hindsight? Not that you're not the expert, but the history books made it seem different."

 

"Before the war he was a little less… dark, like I said." Steve inspected the hand dealt to him and then set them face down. "But he's always been susceptible to low spells. Times were hard then, Sam. Really hard. We lived on quarters practically, and neither of us had both parents. Or more than one hot meal a day. He dealt with that by being practical, which led to some pessimism. I went the other way." He played his first run and looked up with a grin. "Don't get me wrong, he wasn't depressed. He knew how to have a good time and made sure to, but that was out of a conscious effort. For everyone else's benefit. If there wasn't anyone around, Bucky could be downright somber. That only became more and more the rule after his imprisonment."

 

"The only time the accounts show him smiling are with you anyway, Steve." Nat considered Sam's move and then laid down her own.

 

"That's true. I mean, the war was a bad time for everyone. Everyone got a little harder, a little darker. For Bucky it was worse. He spent that time in the POW camp of HYDRA's being tortured and experimented on, and then found out that I'd done exactly what he wanted me not to. That meant the light-hearted, sarcastic, boyish side of Bucky was more and more difficult to coax out. That footage of him laughing in the museum reels is a one in a million capture. We had other things, more serious things to focus on, so what humor came about reflected that. I wasn't faultless at that either. Sarcasm made things easier to face head on."

 

"I feel you on that one," Sam said, throwing in a few cards. Nat played, her silence a little deeper than normal. Sam took that to be because of the subject.

 

"We were all damaged. It was worse for some. Like Buck. He coped with a healthy portion bitterness, even more sarcasm, and a darker perspective. As to the last, hope was a hard thing to keep strong and Bucky was always a little cynical of it anyways. So after his interment… well, I didn't catch on about it until now, but I think he was just surviving long enough to get me home."

 

"Oh, I was."

 

Everyone, save Nat, sat up straighter at the table. Buck was leaning against the wall behind them, towel over his shoulder, hair ruffled dry. He wore his wryest smirk and had his eyes trained on Nat. Sam wondered how long he'd been standing there, daring her to call him out.

 

"My life was worth bug shit, but yours… that was worth saving. Always has been. And I still had to be the one to see to it, because you were too fucking dumb to get yourself home alive on your own. Which, by the way, I was right about. A goddamn HYDRA plane? Really? In the ocean. _Great_... So, yes, I wanted to get your dumb ass home, your too dumb, too principled, too hardheaded ass back where it belonged. And I was so goddamned scared I'd fail. All the time. Scared that you'd get some other notion in your head and go off on some foolhardy mission and get yourself killed. Or worse. And that's just what you fucking did."

 

Buck marched up and pulled out a chair, taking Steve's beer from him as he sat down. "You wouldn'a done that on my watch, pal. What are we playing?"

 

Steve had listened to Buck's little tirade in a kind of a dull stupor. All of a sudden he sat forward, both surprised and concerned, by the looks of it. "You _were scared_? You were never scared."

 

Buck rolled his eyes. "Why d'ya think I have this 'to keep you safe' broken record playing? For shits and giggles? D'ya think I got off on babysitting you? No. I was scared of what would happen if I didn't. I've been scared since you broke your wrist playing catch. Every second of the day. Scared about you. And I'm _still_ scared, because now you think you're invincible but we both know that you're not–"

 

"I know I'm not invincible," Steve interrupted, sounding like a scolded child.

 

"Would you shut up?" Buck drawled back with enough attitude to shut him down. "I'm talking. Listen. For once. If you do something stupid one more goddamn time, when it could have been avoided and still fall within your moral guidelines, I'll beat you within an inch of your life. Hear me?" He shoved the beer, now empty, back into Steve's hand and stood up hard from his seat, chair screaming its protest at his roughness. He was all worked up, ears red and nostrils flared, but still somehow he seemed as in control as he'd been a minute before. "I'm so fucking sick and tired of being worried about you staying alive, Steven fucking Grant Rogers. Swear to God." He marched off then back to their room, continuing to mutter to himself. "I'm here now, though, and I know your game. And I can still drag you off kicking and screaming. Yep. You can bet your dumb ass I'll keep your head out of it and on your shoulders, in one piece. Though that'll be difficult, since you treat it like a fucking cannon ball when it's really an _egg_! Too bad that serum didn't improve everything. I should find that circus suit of his and burn it, see where he's at without all the–"

 

Steve waited until the bedroom door snapped shut to turn and look back at them, completely unfazed. "See? I told you. Sarcastic jerk, pragmatic, cynical. All completely normal."

 

"Yeah," Nat agreed, laying down her whole hand in one, fell, dominating swoop. "And completely devoted to taking care of you. He _is_ basically the same. Well. I win again, gentlemen. That's foot _and_ shoulder massages from you two, and don't forget the Achilles tendon this time."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have serious stamina for sticking around so long. That'll serve you well: there are two blocks left after this one with a few chapters each. The next chapter for this one is FAMILY and, while plotted, it's not finished. I'll probably post it next week, maybe after that. Life is hectic.  
> Anyways, I love seeing your hit counts, kudos and comments. Thanks again!


	12. FAMILY

Some mornings Natasha missed just having cereal. The suggestion earned a gasp and some serious wounded-animal expressions. She still just wanted cereal, it was nothing to do with the taste or texture or whatever of the poached eggs. But telling Sam that was like plugging a dam with your finger. More holes kept popping up. Yes, she missed cereal. A little sweet, a little crunchy, beautifully low maintenance, familiar. And Bisquik pancakes. Knowing the meal was made in under five minutes was just an accomplishment. Plus, Clint did this thing where he put beer in the batter. It was perfect. She missed that. But this was good too.

 

Steve and Bucky especially seemed to think so, not that they could have tasted the food at the rate they'd eaten. But, whatever. Nothing new there either. Natasha didn't even flinch when a bit of egg evaded fork-capture, spun off the plate in a slick of butter sauce and landed on her arm. She also didn't flinch when Bucky picked it up off her arm and ate it. She was used to it. At least he mopped up the mess with a napkin afterwards this time. She drew the line at finger-saliva wet-naps.

 

"I don't know what Tony is doing, but his company looks like it's suffering for it." Steve turned the page of his newspaper with a little shake of his head. "By the way, Nat, he put up Dr. Banner in that tower of his, didn't he?"

 

"He did indeed. He may still be there, actually. I haven't been on Big Green duty in a while, so I'm not sure." Natasha answered without really giving it much thought. She was sifting through her bag of tech goodies looking for fresh innards for their phones.

 

"Hmm. I hope so. It may be home for us, Buck, after this. D.C. isn't looking so good anymore. Not… not for us anyway."

 

"Humph. Wouldn't wanna go back to that shit hole anyway."

 

"Oh, come on. It's not so bad. Beautiful museums and parks. And our nation's capital."

 

Natasha pursed her lips, disappointed that the flex cable length she needed wasn't there.

 

"And horrible memories about trying to kill my best friend."

 

She looked up at that, to gauge his face, but only out of reflex. Both Steve and Sam kept on as they were, ignoring the double-edged comment. Bucky himself didn't even look affected by it. He was working on the crossword from Steve's paper, and doing exceptionally well considering its topicality.

 

"Y'all think we could go to a movie or something this afternoon? I've got cabin fever bad." Sam was chewing on a toothpick, boredom visible on his face. "And we need beer. I don't know who's sleep-drinking, but it needs to stop."

 

"Not me."

 

"Uh-uh."

 

"I don't drink beer alone. There's a reason there's no hard liquor here."

 

"Well, someone's drinking it. And they're gonna feel the wrath of no-alcohol-Sam soon if they don't quit."

 

"You may wanna get that checked out, Sam," Steve said, flipping down the corner of the paper to grin over at him. "Alcoholism is something you can treat, I've read. They've got programs and everything for it now."

 

"Oh, shut up."

 

"I thought drinking was the treatment."

 

"Only in some cultures now, Bucky. And, don't worry about the beer. We can go to the shopping center today and restock. I need to pick up some things and it never hurts to grab some groceries. You guys go through food ridiculously fast." She'd already started compiling a mental list of items, tugging at her bottom curls and pushing around the rest of her country ham. Now that she thought about it, it was about time for a haircut. And color too, she reflected, glancing at Steve's brow line. A little glimmer of Cap-blonde was peeking out at the roots. "And we can grab hair dye too."

 

"Good, 'cause in the sunlight, it looks like your head is bleeding. I had nightmares about it last night after seeing it on the run." Bucky gave her curls a tug of his own and left the table. "And Steve looks like his hair is floating off the top of his scalp. It's cracker-jacks. I wasn't going to say anything, but… eh, my filter control is shitty. It would have come out eventually. Probably ruder 'cause I'm an asshole."

 

"And honesty's always the best policy," Sam added in his best Steve voice.

 

He only got shoved out of this chair this time as punishment for mocking. Steve belly-laughed.

 

"Damn, Buck. I thought you'd gotten control of the super strength thing."

 

"I have."

 

That made Steve laugh harder.

 

Natasha was just about to put her own snide two-cents in when three sharp raps sounded at the door. The gentle banter of the kitchen died instantly. The strain of each of their postures screamed high alert. It even smelled tenser in there. Bucky signaled for the three of them to stay seated and hurried with unsettling silence to the front door. His shoulders slumped back quickly after a check through the peephole and he turned to eye each of them in turn. His gaze settled on Sam.

 

"Now, I know she's not really a maid. Why'd you order a maid, Sam?"

 

"She's not my stripper, Buck." Sam shrugged and put his feet up. "Ask Nat. That's more her style."

 

"And I wouldn't put it past me if I were you, but this maid I didn't order. Though, I do know her." She gently moved Bucky out of the doorway and opened the door to a familiar face. "And so do all of you, at least a little. Bucky, Sam, meet Maria Hill. Officially."

 

"Now, that's not the kind of maid outfit you made me think to expect, Buck." Sam approached, hand outreached. "Nice to see you again, Maria. And not escaping from militant spies."

 

"Hi. Yes, hello." Hill gave the cordial grins and handshakes, nodded and edged around into the kitchen, looking genuinely uncomfortable in her polo shirt, mom jeans, and white sneakers. "Uh, Rogers, I'm really here to speak with you. Nice hair, by the way. You too, Romanoff. If you would follow me."

 

So, she was uncomfortable for more reasons than her frumpy cover. She had business to discuss, uncomfortable business. Steve looked as though he caught onto that and followed obligingly behind Hill towards the back rooms, shoulders around his ears, little resigned frown pulling at his lips. They got about four steps, however, before there was a hang up. They had an uninvited guest.

 

"Uh, Barnes, I need to speak with Rogers alone."

 

Bucky looked at her like he could read her every thought and then assessed Steve. He crossed his arms, head shaking. "I don't think so."

 

"Bucky, we know her. We trust Maria."

 

He glanced between Steve, then Natasha, then Hill again and shrugged. "I know. I remember her. I don't have a problem with her."

 

"Really? Because I shot you with a traq rifle three times and helped pack you into a cell."

 

"I know. Thanks, by the way. Still not leaving Steve alone right now."

 

Hill looked like she was attempting long division of fractions. "Uh… well, you're welcome. But, this is really a personal matter." She took a few more shadowed steps. "So, if you would--"

 

"Yeah. Not good news either. You see, I'm worried about how my friend will take it. And who are you to him? You a close, personal friend who can comfort him through bad news? Got a lot of experience in that, have you?"

 

Natasha was on the receiving end of Hill's next glance, an even more uncomfortable, lost look. "We're pretty tight-knit here," she explained. "There are no private personal matters."

 

"Like a family," Hill grumbled. "Lovely, I so enjoy playing messenger to families. It's four times the fun!" She let Steve escort her to a seat at the couch, leaning to Natasha as they sat. "Is he gonna kill me or…" She cut her eyes at Bucky.

 

"Depends. Are you going to hurt Steve?"

 

"Not directly."

 

"Then you're fine." Natasha grinned and patted Hill's knee, almost laughing at her expression of mild horror.

 

"Good to see you've made progress…"

 

Bucky sat down at Steve's side, directly across from Hill. He looked to be enjoying the ominous effect he was having on the atmosphere in the room. There was even a twinkle in his overly affected cold blue eyes. It was that or he was planning on hitting on Hill. If the latter was the case, Natasha would have to have a chat with him later about literalness. Intimidation wasn't usually a good first ingredient in attraction, but who knew?

 

Hill inspected the metal of Bucky's left hand as it swept back his hair and visibly gulped. Natasha knew what she was thinking. Proximity was an issue. She didn't know his capabilities with a weaponized arm. The effect of her standard issue darts in the guns at her ankle and lower back on him was unknown. All those and more. She was on overdrive. Natasha could probably afford to help her a little amidst the snarking.

 

"So, what's this personal matter, Hill?"

 

"Yeah, and are we good with OJ or do I need to add some 'secco in and mimosa things up?" Sam asked, sitting beside her, glasses proffered. "Because I've got some Dom hidden in the firehouse fridge."

 

Hill cleared her throat. "Well, that depends on Steve really. And his bodyguard here. What are you going by now, Sarge, while I'm thinking about it?"

 

"Bucky," he responded, sitting back and setting his ankle on his knee. Arm around the back of the couch behind Steve and looking down his nose at Hill, he couldn't help but look smug. "But you can call me whatever you want."

 

"Buck. Focus."

 

"I'm focused. I'm focusing. Agent Hill asked my name. I answered. Also, I evaluated. She's come from a hospital." He pointed to a badge slipping out from beneath her shirt hem. "Someone's either sick or dead." He winced as soon as the words came out of his mouth and the bravado vanished. "Is she alive?"

 

Hill nodded. "She's alive. But it's not looking good."

 

Steve had clearly followed. His chin tucked to his chest. "What's not looking good, Maria? How's Peggy?"

 

"Yep. Dom it is." Sam disappeared as the mood took a sharp turn for the worst. Day drinking, a good solution to any problem.

 

Hill watched him go and then drew a deep breath. She was trying to decide how best to deliver the news. Natasha could see it in the little ticks of her mouth and the white of her knuckles. "Like I said, she's still alive. In fact, her vitals are good. Heart's as strong as to be expected. Her lungs have cleared up. But…"

 

Steve was leaning so far forward he was hardly actually seated anymore. Bucky pulled him back onto the couch and uncrossed his legs. "But what, Ms. Hill?" His mouth pinched up afterwards. Like everyone else, he could probably feel the waves of pain emanating off of his friend.

 

"But, she's not well mentally. At all anymore. She's not remembering anyone. Not her kids, no one." Hill's eyes dropped to her lap and she carefully folded the hem of her shirt into a perfect line. "She's asking for you, Rogers."

 

Natasha felt a sigh escape her and shifted her legs. Dementia, Alzheimer's, anything that robbed a person of their memories… brainwashing, they were all sensitive subjects among this group. Bucky shifted too, but only to put an arm around Steve's shoulders, his flesh arm. The metal one whirred angrily. Steve, on the other hand, didn't react at all. He just kept staring at Hill, waiting for more explanation. She took the hint.

 

"Now, we've worked out something with Stark. He's developed a treatment in cooperation with Dr. Banner and some colleagues. He's putting her up in the center he had built. It's his place, a Stark place, so I could get you to her unseen and undocumented, but…" Hill flashed a look to Bucky.

 

"There's no reason for that sort of hesitation here, Maria. Bucky is--" Whatever Steve had to say in defense of him, Bucky decided wasn't necessary.

 

"Shut up, Steve. Go see Peggy. I'll stay here, since I'm the problem." He thwacked Steve's back and leaned into the couch again, crossing his legs. "It's not like I can't behave myself if you're not around constantly." Hill nearly flinched for her back holster when Bucky turned his attention to her. "Just as long as you watch his back and keep him from doing anything stupid. You look like a practical person. I'd imagine you'd do everything you could--"

 

"Enough subtext threats, Bucky," Natasha interrupted. "Hill knows what she's doing. I trust her to go with Steve and bring him back in one piece. If not, you know her name and face." She finished up with a wink as Bucky nodded ominously behind her.

 

"Well, if that's all settled…" Hill stood, spunk restored to her tone. "Rogers, you can follow me. Bring your photostatic veil. Romanoff…" They exchanged a look that sent Natasha a few years back. "Barnes, Wilson, pleasure as always. Thanks." She accepted the mimosa Sam had just returned with and threw it back in one go. "This should take seven hours tops, but you never know with these things. You have a contact for Rogers, correct?"

 

Everyone nodded and shifted en masse towards the front door. Bucky handed Steve his holomask from the dining room table and grabbed him by the shoulder again. "I'm here if you need me. You're not alone."

 

"I know, Buck," Steve grinned his most unhappy smile in response. "Thanks."

 

With the door closed and the footfalls down the stairs no longer echoing it felt like all the air was sucked from the room. Bucky was a black hole of gloom. As well as he'd played the nonchalant best friend with Steve and Hill present, he wasn't actually ready for the separation. He was staring at the door with a mixture of pining and rage that reminded Natasha again of a puppy dog, a very angsty puppy dog. If they let him, he would probably continue on this way until Steve returned. Natasha could not let him do that.

 

"Alright," she broke the silence and turned to Sam. He was as tired as he'd ever looked, mimosas forgotten in his hands. Handing her two with a sigh, he retired to the couch and chugged his. "They'll be gone for most of the day and, although we have to stay inside until noon, we can go into town afterwards and run some errands to keep our minds busy." She moved both glasses to her left hand and gingerly took Bucky's in her right. He responded fairly well to touch these days and, sure enough, this was a good bet. He relaxed some and let her guide him away from the door, even taking the mimosa from her gently enough to not break the glass and without prompting. "That gives us… just about three hours to do some chores and get cleaned up. Okay?"

 

Bucky never responded. He didn't speak to them, in fact, for the entire time they were in the apartment. He didn't even stay with them in the apartment. About forty seconds into chore time he turned off the vacuum, stomped into his room and back out again in work out gear and then out the front door. He spent the rest of their on-call time in the basement pummeling punching bags into sandy smithereens. When Sam reported back from checking on him, he reported that exactly nine bags had suffered the wrath of Steve-less Bucky and there was also a new hole in the basement wall. That last bit was especially unsettling seeing as the walls of the basement were concrete. Bucky reappeared a few minutes later and stalked into his room, returning cleaned up and changed, but still not saying a word.

 

He could behave when Steve wasn't around, he just didn't behave well.

 

"So, the plan is: office supply store, grocery store, late lunch. Does that work for everyone?" Natasha handed Bucky his glove as they gathered at the front door. He grunted his thanks. It was like talking.

 

"It works for me, Nat. As long as we get beer, I couldn't care less if we went to the DMV and waited in line for eight hours."

 

"Well… that's just… great. That's great, Sam. Good to see everyone in high spirits." She rolled her eyes and herded the guys from the apartment, snapping off the lights with a little more force than necessary. This was going to be so pleasant.

 

* * *

 

Okay, so listen. It looked bad, yes, but there was a reason Sam was not his usual, delightfully charismatic self that day. He had a nails-on-a-chalkboard, baby-wailing, pterodactyl-screeching headache. And the whole alcoholic routine wasn't real. He wasn't jonesing for the sauce for the sake of the sauce. He just needed help sleeping and with the headache he woke up with for the third day in a row, it was going to be blackout drunk sleep that night or none at all again. Buck had been serious when he'd said Nat's hair gave him nightmares the night before. It'd been a real wailer from about eleven-thirty to four, only modulated by Steve's quiet wake-ups. Now, that alone Sam could have dealt with. He was used to shitty sleeping conditions and running on empty. But the weather was changing or something, because his neck felt tight behind his ears and his bad knee ached and, like we said before, this was the third day of that shit.

 

All that combined left Sam with his number one charm-disarmer. Good thing they all knew each other as well as they did. He didn't have to waste the energy on pretending he was alright. He could be just as alternatively whiny and grumpy as he felt like being. It's not like they as a group weren't accustomed to crabby, grumbly petulance. And, unfortunately, he wasn't even alone in it just then. Misery loves company, sure, but moping Buck wasn't ever a real bonus. Steve leaving could not have been more poorly timed for the good-mood bad-mood balance of their gang. Poor Nat. She probably felt like the underpaid seventh-grade teacher right about then. But she was handling it well.

 

"Bucky, if you don't stop rolling open and closed that window, I swear, I will tranquilize you and leave you to freeze in this van until Steve returns without an iota of remorse."

 

Well, she was handling it moderately well. To her credit, she didn't yell that, as irritated as she was, or even snap it. Also, Buck had been creating a wind tunnel in the van for the entirety of the drive and her patience had lasted through hair in her eyes, mouth and nose and a random grocery bag being sucked into the cabin and into her field of vision. That was handling him well in Sam's book.

 

Buck didn't respond, since he was boycotting speech again, but he did roll up the window and leave it rolled up. After a minute, he also reached over and plucked a curly strand from her face to set it back into place. It was his peace offering.

 

The final two minutes of their drive passed in blessed silence, the horrible roar of the air tunnel permanently cut off. It made the throbbing in Sam's head a little weaker. But not much. When they all unloaded at the shopping center, he could feel the impact of his footsteps reverberating up his legs and back and into his head as if his bones were rattling. The shutting of door felt like someone was clanging cymbals together beside his ear. He could literally hear his eyelids blinking. The headache had officially reached cartoon level severity and their little outing had just begun.

 

He didn't remember actually following Nat through the electronics store, but soon Sam found himself staring dully at the read out of a register. It glowed brightly back at him $82.50. What in the hell could she have bought so quickly for eighty-two fifty? He couldn't put it together in time before the plastic bag rustled thunderously and was in Nat's hand. The whole time spent in that store had been passed in silence. Sam knew this despite not having registered their actions inside because, when Nat spoke at last, Sam's brain vibrated in his skull.

 

"The grocery store is in this center, so we can just walk if that's amenable to everyone."

 

"Yes, yes, fine," Sam replied with unnecessary enthusiasm, almost cutting her off. Anything to get her to stop talking. In that moment, he was glad that Buck was determinedly mute again.

 

Nat nodded and didn't say anything else, but that little outburst had put Sam on her radar. She kept glancing over and inspecting him as they walked. Buck seemed to be operating on autopilot and didn't actively notice a thing. That was until they passed one of the stores in between.

 

It was a pet goods store and, to Sam's initial dismay, it had set up outside a few wire pens with animals up for adoption. The things were yapping and mewing and, in general, making a big fucking racket in addition to having attracted all the noise-making individuals in a five mile radius: small children, cooing adolescents, those really irritating guys who act all sensitive to win over the girls. All of them. They were huddled around these pens making their stupid sounds of joy.

 

Now, normally, all that would have added up to Buck's immediate and determined avoidance of the area. The noise, the crowd, the mawkishness, none of that was his jam yet. But that day, all those things focused around very small and, admittedly, very adorable furry creatures. And, news flash, apparently Buck had a soft spot for small, helpless things in need of a family. At first, he acted like he wasn't interested. He glanced at the crowd as the three of them approached and gradually swept so that he was the farthest of their group from it. But, as they came closer, he drifted back and he couldn't maintain the purposeful aversion of his attention. By the time they'd come within hearing distance of the customers, Buck had slowed his pace and was slowly veering in their direction.

 

He stopped just beyond the ring of people and looked over their shoulders at the little clusters of dogs and cats, his face screaming a story that Sam, with his headache, just couldn't read. Nat waited, patience affected by the delay and allowed Buck his moment. When Sam turned to see what they should do, she was hugging herself and he didn't want to bother her to know why. So he waited too. Buck stood there for a good five minutes, just looking. He didn't lean over or pet any of the animals like the other people, but he did step right up to one pen in particular and focused in on one animal. It was bigger dog than the others, older though, not a puppy. It looked a little scraggly and underfed and none of the others were interested in it, which the dog seemed to have picked up on since it had separated from the rest and was sitting to the back of the pen. Buck stared at that poor, neglected dog with all the intensity of his soul until it looked like his jaw was going to crack.

 

Sam felt a pit in his stomach that he didn't want to acknowledge. He was just about to go and try to console Buck when Nat brushed past him. She wrapped an arm around Buck's back and, grabbing onto him with both hands, led him away from the pens. No one made eye contact or said a word. They simply walked to the grocery store and pretended nothing had happened, especially that Buck had tears running down his face. Suddenly, Sam's headache didn't seem like such a big deal, he needed to cheer this guy up.

 

"Hey, Bu--James! I was thinking of making burgers again tonight. That sounds great, right? Hamburgers?"

 

That earned a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes and a nod of the head. Still, even when he was supposed to be someone else, Buck was on speech strike. And it kept up, through an assortment of fairly decent jokes on Sam's part, considering his own situation, and exactly three attempts on Nat's part to lighten the mood. It was a strained shopping trip, all in all, though not a bad one. They left with hamburger fixings and more beer than they could carry without Buck revealing his special talents. It was with a shopping cart that they headed back to the van in the parking lot, but not before passing by the pet goods store.

 

Buck bee lined this time to the little bedraggled looking terrier, not at all put out by the near dozens of bags he was carrying. The dog seemed to remember him, or at least noticed him this time and edged his way with a wag of its tail. Nat preemptively collected the grocery bags from the two of them and told Sam she'd take them to the van.

 

"… let him have a few minutes. Animal therapy is a good option we haven't explored yet. I'll be right back."

 

Sam joined Buck after she left, standing beside him at the pen. Up close, the little dog was so odd looking it was cute, with its big bat ears, wiry fur, and long, skinny legs. As he came up, it even stood and limped towards them, obviously desperate for the attention. Buck knelt down then, and reached out his right hand to rub the dog behind the ear. It whined and wagged its tail so hard it fell over.

 

"What happened to her?" Buck asked quietly of the attendant. He had to repeat himself twice before he answered.

 

"Oh, her? She was hit by a car. They tried to fix her back but she has trouble with one rear leg."

 

Buck frowned deeply. "Why didn't they try again?"

 

The attendant shrugged. "She'd old and the surgery's expensive. It's not worth the investment."

 

Sam found himself frowning as well. Buck's mouth had dropped open a little, disgust written all over his face. "Not… worth…" His voice was shaking and, even over the noise of the other people and animals, Sam could hear the arm gearing up. But instead of standing and throwing the attendant across the parking lot by his throat like Sam expected, Buck just gently gathered the little dog into his arms and turned to leave.

 

"Wait! What are you doing?!" The attendant shouted after them as Sam scuttled to catch up.

 

"Taking a bad investment off your hands," Buck growled back and kept right on. "You lousy piece of shit."

 

Nat's face when they returned to the van was priceless. She took one look at the dog and rounded on Sam. "I meant that he would therapize with the dog there, not purchase the dog," she whispered, leaning around to watch Buck get into the front seat with it.

 

"Oh, he didn't buy her. He just… took her."

 

"Took? Too--He stole a dog?"

 

Sam shrugged. "The store wasn't treating her very well, it didn't seem to--to want her. I don't know if you call that stealing."

 

Nat's eyes were larger than he'd ever seen them. "Well, it's certainly not purchasing. They didn't do anything?"

 

"No. Not really. I think he did them a favor, saved on euthanasia costs or something."

 

"It's a sick dog?" She was wilting with every new piece of information.

 

"Yeah, she's got a bum leg. I think Buck relates--"

 

"I'd say so, Sam." Hands running through her hair, she let out a huge sigh. "Okay, stay here. I'm going to talk to him, at least find out what he's thinking."

 

Sam didn't stay. He followed to listen.

 

Buck had managed to buckle himself in and still keep the little dog wrapped protectively in one arm against his chest. The left hand was stroking her ears, leaving the dog comatose with delight, eyes closed, head in the crook of his elbow. Buck was staring at Nat with a fight in his eye as they approached.

 

"Bucky, what are you doing? You can't steal a dog. You know that."

 

"I didn't. I adopted her. I've adopted this dog. Her name is Wobbles and I am taking her back to the apartment to live with us. I'm going to take care of her. Since this place won't," he added under his breath.

 

"I don't know, Bucky. We may not be able to have animals in the--"

 

"Then you'll talk to the Chief," he said very calmly. "He'll do anything for you. Or rather, you can talk anyone into anything if you really try. Besides, the fire house had a dog from 1997 to 2002. It's not unprecedented."

 

Nat stood by his door, arms crossed, staring at the picture in front of her. Buck stared right back, unblinking. Wobbles nodded off to sleep. Finally, Nat spun on her heel and swept passed Sam.

 

"Where are you going?"

 

"To buy dog food and things. We have a dog now."

 

* * *

 

If someone had told Natasha a month ago, or even two weeks ago, that Bucky Barnes would soon save a small, unfortunate-looking dog from negligence and mistreatment by stealing it from a pet supplies store, she would have thought them deranged. If they'd divulged the full extent of this 'saving' she would have laughed in their face. And yet, there he was, sitting on the floor of their living space repurposing one of the bed sheets he eviscerated during one of his nightmares, the little dog flopped over his lap. He'd already fed her and put down water, brushed her wiry hair and fastened a collar around her neck. Now he was making a papoose.

 

"Steve's mom made 'em for the ward. Sometimes the babies were better when she kept them close," he explained to both Natasha's and Sam's questioning faces.

 

It made sense really, that Bucky had emotionally bonded with this sickly little creature, abused and unwanted. Natasha knew that. But knowing the connection didn't make the sight of him taking extremely delicate care of the dog any less alien. Not when he'd spent the morning decimating punching bags eighty times her size and one accidental squeeze of his hand could leave her instantly and completely lifeless. Bucky didn't seem vexed by that in the least. And Wobbles… well, that little dog looked to be literally in paradise, just so long as she was next to Bucky. When he set her down to eat and walked away, she followed with tiny whimpers until he picked her back up. So, for the first hour of them being back from errands, Bucky had had a constant limping, whining shadow. The papoose was his answer.

 

"You know, Buck, enabling her like that is not going to do anything for separation anxiety." Sam received only a glare. Apparently, Bucky had no desire to treat her separation anxiety beside avoiding stimulating it at all costs. "Okay, well what about at night? Huh? If she whines when she's away from you, what do you think she's going to do when you leave her to sleep in a separate room?"

 

"I won't."

 

"Oh, yeah? And you think that that dog will stay in a dog bed on the floor when you're in a bed not a foot away? What happens when you have a nightmare and snap her spine?"

 

Bucky's face shivered with pain. "She'll sleep in her kennel then." He sounded resolved, but Sam's comment had obviously shaken him. He set Wobbles in her newly fashioned papoose like she was an already cracked egg. The dog was unfazed. She simply curled into a tighter ball in the sheet cocoon, leaving just her nose peeking out of the top. Bucky softly rubbed a finger on her nose and then looked up at them dolefully.

 

"I couldn't leave her there."

 

"We know, Buck. It hit close to home. All the same, you can take care of the dog without becoming co-dependent. Although, Nat, I gotta say, considering her leg problem, the papoose is not a bad idea. At least, when we're just bumming around the apartment. I wouldn't be against wearing it when Bucky was busy or whatever. That would help with the attachment issues, probably." Sam looked over, shoulders shrugging.

 

What could Natasha say? The dog was already there and, admittedly, the idea of taking her back made Natasha's stomach churn. That and she would so obviously be a therapy outlet for Bucky. She too shrugged. "I'm fine with it, so long as she doesn't disturb our routine. But, Bucky, you do know that she's ultimately your responsibility, don't you? You have to make sure she's eating and drinking, clean and exercised, in addition to yourself. Are you--"

 

"I have looked out for someone besides myself before, Natasha. And it'll be easier this time. Wobbles won't fight me on it." He shifted the weight of the papoose as he stood. "I was getting bored with remembering to eat and drink and shower on my own. This'll put the challenge back into everyday life." Rolling his eyes, Bucky left a wake of sarcasm on his way to the kitchen.

 

Silence resumed after that, with Bucky sulking and nursing his wounded pride, Sam laying on the couch with a wet cloth over his eyes, and Natasha fighting herself over apologizing. Eventually she decided there was nothing to be apologetic about, she was just being pragmatic and looking out for everyone's best interests. She could, however, make peace by means of an offering, namely an offer to spar Bucky in Steve's absence.

 

Sam sat up abruptly and winced when Natasha made said offering. "Are you outside of your mind?"

 

"No," she replied firmly, glancing between the two of them. Her offer had worked, it seemed. Bucky was almost smirking at her. "No, Bucky is in control. He wouldn't hurt me. If he caught me." That earned the full smirk. "So, what do you say, Barnes? Up for it?"

 

He didn't reply verbally, still punishing them with muteness as it seemed, but he did return from the window seat to Sam's side. In a surprisingly fast and gentle motion he swept his makeshift papoose from his own shoulders and onto Sam's, leaving Wobbles unaware of the exchange. She was snoring at this point. He disappeared into the back, presumably to change. Natasha was just about to do the same when Sam grabbed her hand.

 

"You know I don't know first aid like you do, right? I'll only be able to do so much."

 

She smirked down at him. "Oh, Sam. I'm not worried. But I appreciate your concern."

 

* * *

 

Now, Sam knew that Nat was a badass. There was no questioning that. She had that quick as a cat, smarter than you could conceive of, creative as fuck thing going for her. And those flippy, twisty, bendy, Brazilian dance fighting moves were killer, Sam would never think himself her match. But Buck was twice her size and astonishingly fast himself. And add to that the metal arm, super-human everything and his propensity for literally killing and the whole set up made Sam sweat. Not Nat, though. She was cool as ever, smirking that simper and pacing the edge of the ring as Buck stared her down from the center. He was smirking as well, but his was more ominous. His made Sam think of a monster truck rally. Smashing was going to happen here.

 

"Now, I've got a small, impressionable creature here, strapped to my chest, so I want a clean fight you two. Hear me?"

 

Nat flashed a wider grin in Sam's direction. "I wouldn't worry about that, Sam. But I'll behave. Promise." Pausing to pull back her hair, she met Buck's gaze. He'd made a good point earlier. Under the light, her red roots did make her head look like it was bleeding.

 

Sam suppressed a shudder and rubbed Wobbles behind the ear. "Well, this should be interesting."

 

The dog gave his hand a little lick and settled right back for another nap. And boy, did she miss a show during her snooze. Nat, as usual, was right. There was no cause for concern about it being a clean fight. In order for it to be a fight of any kind, someone had to land a blow. And for twenty-seven minutes, that never actually happened. That didn't mean strikes weren't aimed, they were just never delivered. Speed for speed, the two were a match. And what Nat lacked in strength, she made up for in knowing the weaknesses of strength. She could parry like nobody's business. That was pretty much all she did. As promised, she behaved and none of her wicked acrobatic take-downs were employed. For his part, Buck behaved as well, pulling what punches looked like they would land -- though they didn't and wouldn't have -- and keeping the lefty on the bench.

 

As he sat and watched from a bench, Sam decided they looked like they were dancing. It was a very violent dance, and one that neither of them looked like they were particularly enjoying, glaring as they were, but definitely a dance. Their motions gave and took in rhythm, like they were flowing together. It was very nearly a little sexy, if they hadn't been panting and swearing alternatively. Or maybe that just added to it. Buck broke his word-strike to pepper the air with a rain of creative curses, though many of them were said with a smile-like glare. Nat provided a few taunts and teases here and there but she mainly kept quiet until the panting started, then the taunts came more frequently and more breathlessly. Finally, she cracked a solid one about Buck's arm needing oiling before spinning around him and over the ropes.

 

"Sorry, Bucky, I couldn't keep that up any longer. I'm winded."

 

"You mean you're losing. I almost caught you with that hook. You just want to bow out with your pride intact." He leaned over the ropes, sneer on his lips.

 

"I can admit that I'm not your equal in all things. Your endurance is assuredly in a whole other league than mine. You have science on your side there. So, I'm winded. I'm conceding to your superior stamina." Nat pulled an arm across her chest to stretch it out. "And that's all your getting from me. It has nothing to do with pride. It's simply factual."

 

"Mm. Graceful concession, blaming it on factors outside your control. That's fine. We both know who really won."

 

Nat followed his little saunter from the ring with her eyes, trying with all her might not to smile. "Yes, we do, Bucky. And since you so need to hear me say it, you won. You're the best, you outlasted me."

 

"I would have landed the first blow."

 

"Yes, of course you would have." The tone of her voice suggested otherwise though. She pulled her other arm into a stretch as she moseyed over to watch Buck gather Wobbles' sling over his shoulder again. "But you didn't," she added under her breath, patting his arm ever so lightly. Her eye met Sam's with so much triumph he snorted. No, Buck didn't make first contact. Nat did, just then, but she wasn't going to brag about it.

 

Something about Steve being around made the whole place seem more lively. It must have, he must have had some extra superpower. Because with him not there the place just screamed a special kind of silence. Sam could hear his friggin' stomach churning, for god's sake. Nat could probably hear it too in the next room.

 

After the speed and snark sparing bout in the basement, they had all gone their separate ways: Nat for a long shower and to dye her hair, Buck to walk Wobbles, and Sam… well, Sam hadn't known what to do with himself. Steve also evidently provided the entertainment. Or more probably, smoothed out the awkwardness. He was the glue uniting this group and without him they all just sort of floated in the same space.

 

After prepping the hamburger meat and then tidying his spartan-bare room, Sam resorted to confronting their awkwardness head on. Natasha was doing something that looked suspiciously like infiltrating several government databases simultaneously on the laptop, so he left her to that and shuffled over to Buck and Steve's room. It was empty at first glance, though Sam knew that Buck was somewhere in there because the papoose lay empty on his bed along with his shirt and pants. Sam decided that that necessitated his knocking and announcing his presence, to avoid seeing any more of Buck than was absolutely required.

 

"Hey, Buck? What's going on?"

 

The bathroom door swung open some and Buck responded, "in here." Sam took that as a go ahead to enter, though remembering other such occasions, he stepped inside with one eye closed. It was safe after all, Buck standing in his boxers at the sink with a pair of scissors, Wobbles seated on the counter, tail wagging as he clipped at her scraggily fur. By the time Sam came in, Buck had managed to clean up almost all of her into a mildly presentable little fur ball. She was almost cute. There was more hair on the ground than her coat could have yielded up though, and Sam noticed that Buck had taken a hand to his own as well. This time it was much neater, having been done with a pair of scissors and not a knife, and a little bit shorter. As he leaned against the door frame, the scissors were handed around to him.

 

"The back. Could ya take care of it?... Please." He shook the scissors for emphasis when Sam didn't take them. "I'd do it myself but I can't see it. Arm's not reflective enough." He cut his eyes over to his left and then ticked his eyebrow. It was a joke, Buck was making a joke. Sam gave him a small chuckle in reward.

 

"Yeah, I can give you hand, man. You actually did a pretty good job on your own. Just needs a clip here and… here." Sam snipped off the longest strands on Buck's neck, where they would have fallen over his collar, leaving it even just at his nape's hairline. "Now you're good."

 

Buck took back the scissors and went back to trimming Wobbles' fur. "Thanks. Did you need something?"

 

"Oh, no. Not really. Just, you know, seeing what you were doing."

 

"Checking in on me?" Buck was locked on him in the mirror, despite still snipping away with those scissors.

 

"No. Actually, I was bored. But… now that you mention it, are you alright? Is Steve being gone a--"

 

"Leave."

 

"What? I was asking to make sure--"

 

"Leave now. Please." Buck reached back and gave Sam a gentle shove out the door when he didn't move. It wasn't aggressive or anything, just enough to push him beyond the frame and leave him back peddling a bit as the bathroom door closed. "And shut my door behind you. Please," he followed up with. Somebody did not want to talk about their feelings just then.

 

"Yeah. Yeah, you're welcome."

 

And that was that. Sam stayed out in the front, making do with what few resources of entertainment were available to him while the two assassins were all secretive and solitary back in their rooms. Not really, though. He heard Nat's voice bubble up about a half an hour later, talking on her phone again, and then there was the unending squeaking from Buck's room which meant that he had introduced Wobbles to all the toys they'd gotten her. So, in reality, Sam was the only one all alone. He got over it. Mostly by taking a nap on the couch, but he also comforted himself before that with the fact that Steve would be back soon and balance would be restored to the apartment.

 

And then, all of a sudden, he wasn't alone anymore. There was no telling how long he hadn't been alone, but when Sam woke from his epic nap, his head was on a pillow and he was on a different couch than he'd started off on. Where he'd been sprawled out, Buck and Nat now sat, the daily foot rub being given. Wobbles laid, curled up in a ball on Nat's lap, and the television was quietly playing something familiar above Sam's head. As he sat up, he realized everything looked brighter and sounded less like rusted brakes. His headache was significantly less skull-splitting.

 

"Feeling any better?"

 

He gave Nat a nod and stretched. It felt like his insides were sloshing more than usual. His brain could have been an omelet in a frying pan with the way it was jiggling.

 

"She drugged you."

 

"What?"

 

Nat pulled a not so contrite face when Sam turned back. "I might have given you a shot of something or other while you were sleeping. Your head feels better, doesn't it?"

 

"Like the vise around it let up some, yeah. What'd you dose me with?"

 

"Nothing dangerous."

 

Buck rolled his eyes as Sam looked to him for more explanation. At the gentle sound of a fanfare, however, he lost that sullen expression and his attention, bright and earnest, flashed up to the TV. Turning, Sam realized why it had sounded familiar. He'd watched this particular documentary almost a dozen times for a school report.

 

"It's the third one that they've aired today. It's some kind of History Channel thematic marathon." Nat sounded a little bored, but possibly also amused.

 

"Makes sense. This weekend, Saturday, is the anniversary of them finding him. In the ice." It was one of those things Sam just always kind of knew. He remembered when it happened with such clarity that he would probably never forget. It wasn't everyday your childhood hero came back from the dead. It also wasn't every lifetime that you got to meet and befriend your childhood hero. Sam tended to remember these things.

 

Over on the couch Buck snorted. "As though his birthday wasn't patriotic enough, now his rebirthday is practically a national holiday." It was said to be sour and a little snide, but it came out more begrudgingly fond. He watched with rapt attention as the rest of the documentary played, somewhere between pride and consternation. When the network's segue, 'What if the Captain had been found sooner?', ran between programs though, he grew restless then peevish again. Shifting back and forth in his seat, breathing deeply, setting his arm into gear, it all pointed toward Buck flipping out. Just when he seemed to be at a breaking point and everything else in the apartment had frozen stiff in anticipation, nothing at all happened. He didn't punch through anything or scream or even bite his lip until it bled. Instead he scoffed. It was all very anticlimactic.

 

"I did that," he announced, feigning indifference. The narrator was suggesting JFK's death could have been averted by Captain America. "I did that, and that… and I did that," he continued to inform them over the descriptions of national tragedies. "And that. I did that, or did I?" A frown cropped up as that was puzzled over. "Did I do that?"

 

"No, for once that wasn't HYDRA. That was the Ten Rings. Slightly different. Terrorist organization." Nat switched her other foot into his hands and leaned back. "You don't remember?"

 

Buck hesitated. "No… no, of course I remember. I just assume any fucked up shit is my fault." That was clearly a lie, though either Nat was too blissful from the foot rub or she didn't want to poke that bear. Sam followed suit. No bears just then, please. He'd only now gotten control of that headache.

 

"I mean, what's one more, a dozen more? There's so many. Leaves in a forest." The air felt taut again as Buck pushed a sigh through his teeth. "Yeah, if only Steve had already been found. He could have prevented all of these things with one simple act. What's one dead traitor weighed against presidents, and activists, and innocents? Just a lifetime of nightmares for Steve. Bucky Barnes was already fallen in combat, gone. He'd have just been putting down a ghost. Better then than now. When news comes that I'm alive, half the people won't care and the other half will despise me. They rescued a hero with Steve but defrosting me was just unleashing a monster. He's freedom, but I'm fear. Talk about a legacy."

 

"Bucky…" Nat bent nearly in half trying to catch his arm, but he'd already set aside her feet and was retreating from the couch. "Don't do that to yourself. If people knew what happened to you there'd be more sympathy than that."

 

"Don't. Please. My mood's already ruined. No saving it," he grumbled, heading for the window seat. "When's Steve gonna be back?" He asked no one in particular.

 

And no one had an answer. The peppy theme song from Steve's first American tour cued up, also giving no answer and doing nothing for the distemper settling over the group. It clashed so horribly that it actually made Sam cringe. Nat was a step ahead of him, turning down the volume and switching the channel.

 

It made no difference. The damage was done and Buck was lost, looking out the window, his face a mask. But Sam knew him well enough by now to recognize the signs peeking through. The weird almost-smile pulling upwards at his mouth, that just meant Buck was fighting not to look destroyed. The glaze over his eyes that sapped both light and focus from his glance, that was a wall made mostly of tears he wouldn't let fall and only meant he was looking harder at something else to distract from their cause. Today that something else was the world beyond his glass and brick holding cell. The upswing of his brows showed what they always did when he looked out the window, that he so wanted out there but didn't think it possible.

 

Sam had a running tally of the self-assessed reasons Buck was certain that he couldn't fully reintegrate into normal life ever. They all sang the same song, and frankly, the tune was getting old. Buck's self-loathing was full of minor chords and not a single rest. It was the cause of Sam's headaches. Guilt was such an insidious thing.

 

The bigger problem was there was nothing they as a group could do to help Buck adjust this view of himself from the outside world's perspective if he continued to refuse actually allowing an opportunity for such a perspective. He had assumed all their reactions already and could not be convinced that they would be otherwise. It was a vicious cycle worsened by the fact that he went through spurts of hating everyone in the outside world preemptively.

 

Not just then, though. Just then he was gazing wistfully, not murderously. Just then he looked like he wanted their forgiveness and acceptance but was flat out too insecure to ask for it. That guilt again. Buck needed affirmation that his existence was worthwhile. For weeks now, Steve had provided that in unstinting amounts. Steve wasn't around just then, so Sam and Nat would have to do, and the Steve-stand-in Buck had rescued earlier that day. Sam gathered her up off of Nat's lap and walked Wobbles over to the window seat.

 

His headache was back, with a vengeance.

 

"Anyone worth getting to know will see you the way we do, Buck." Sam handed him the dog. She was going to be his living proof for this round of persuasive speaking. "As a person with a past, and a present, and a future, all related but not dictated by one or the other. Legacy's all well and good when you're talking about a person as an idea, a… propagandistic tool. But you're done being someone else's instrument, so it's what you choose to do now that matters, that defines you as a person." He sat back and waved at him and Wobbles together. "Now, I know the man in front of me is a good person by what he's doing now. Does it really matter what they all think off a blind judgment of your pasts?"

 

Buck scratched lightly under Wobbles' chin and shrugged his shoulder. "Fuck them and their opinions."

 

"Pretty much." Sam nodded and regretted it. Pinching the bridge if his nose did no good either but he powered through. "You can decide which ones even deserve your attention later. You know that's what Steve does. Do you think if he gave half a rat's ass about public opinion he'd have disappeared without explanation after destroying the Potomac? No. He's selective that way."

 

"Yeah, that's not new. And it's not always for the best…" Buck took off the mask, let Sam see his wheels turning. They were back on the begrudgingly fond track. "But you're right. Thanks, Sam. Things got… hazy there for a minute."

 

"That's alright, Buck. I think, for once, that was just a normal human thing. It's called anxiety. It's parents uncertainty and insecurity visit everyone once in a while. Some of us, they're our house guests all the time. You just gotta learn to cope with their weird habits. Alright?"

 

"Is talking in metaphors your coping mechanism? Seems you've got some practice in that."

 

"Shut up, man."  

Buck smiled a little at his lap when Sam shoved him. He didn't move an inch, but he did seem moved. At least Sam had talked the snark back into him. That was a good sign with both the super-dudes. Now, if only Sam was could talk down his headache like that.

 

* * *

 

Sam was a much more proactive person when it came to Bucky than Natasha. He wanted to talk feelings and work through traumas and, in general, coddle Bucky's psyche until it had nothing left to cry about. Natasha was of a slightly different opinion when it came to approaches. Time had shown that, if left alone long enough, Bucky would recover from whatever melancholia he was suffering on his own. Sure, a hug and some encouraging words helped if he initiated them, but usually, like a child's, his sulks resolved on their own. It was all about letting Bucky return to his mental center, and sometimes that meant letting him brew over problems. Other times that meant letting him throw his tantrum but not feeding it with any attention.

 

That was just what she was doing late that afternoon as they were fixing dinner. Sam had already received the 'don't you dare encourage him' sign Natasha had given him and had shut down completely. Maybe she shouldn't have given it with a knife in her hand. Oh well. As it was then, the only sounds in the kitchen besides the clatter of cutlery and socks scuffing over wood was Bucky's muttered tirade.

 

It had started out innocently enough, as a comment about how Steve had already been gone for six and a half hours. When no one had had an acceptable response to that observation, Bucky had grown truculent and wondered aloud more aggressively about the ETA for Steve. Sam had reminded him that Hill had estimated seven hours or more for the trip and it had all been downhill from there.

 

"…hardly have any morals as it is. I could kill her and leave her dead in the gutter without a second thought. Would not upset me in the least. I might even enjoy it. 'S been a while since I've had my hands on a sniper rifle, and those were my bread and butter. Wouldn't even see me, hear me, be dead before she hit the ground." Bucky tore open the defrosted package of ground meat he'd been instructed to season and shape into patties. A little fleck of beef flew across the kitchen and landed on the counter. He wiped it up without hesitation. Well-trained in some ways at least. "This is a delicate operation. She knows how a bank of radio silence can look. An update. That's all I want. Her shit's encrypted. It wouldn't be that hard."

 

That sort of spewing continued as he seasoned the meat, as he over aggressively smashed it into pancake-thin discs, which Sam quietly reshaped across the kitchen. But it couldn't last forever. As Natasha had expected, he ran out of creative murder scenarios, threats against Hill's person, mind and spirit, and whiny complaints all before the burgers hit the skillet. The time spent slicing potatoes into fries was instead dominated by silence and Bucky watching the clock. Then the only sounds heard were Wobbles' snores as she slept against Bucky's chest, a lump in the cloth of her papoose.

 

Once the gale of Bucky's tantrum had passed and he seemed to be back in a rational place, Natasha decided to switch approaches and address the source. She pulled up her phone to the appropriate secure line and slid it across the counter to him. "I'm sure he's fine, but if you're worried about Steve you could always just call to check."

 

Bucky shot a searing glare at her and then pulled on his headphones. He couldn't have heard anything beyond them after that even if an atomic bomb had gone off down the street.

 

"Yeah… Steve's a soft spot for him," Sam said over the pop and sizzle of hamburgers. "I got the silent treatment earlier for about the same thing. He can talk about him but we can't talk about the two of them or their dynamic. I think Buck's still struggling with it."

 

"Undoubtedly." Natasha had seen this before. "It's a weakness." She'd lived this before. "He sees it as a weakness of his but can't face not having it. He'll figure it out in time." She had.

 

The headphones came off on their own after a while. Dinner was a low key event, highlighted by the dog's attempt to steal Bucky's hamburger out of his hand. His unexpected laughter lightened things significantly. That was one place Natasha had been absolutely wrong, the matter with the dog. Wobbles was a genius addition.

 

When the time crept past faster and faster and the seven hour mark came and went past them, Bucky grew unsettled again. This time in a needy sort of way, following Natasha and Sam around at their heels in some mixture of separation anxiety and protectiveness. He wouldn't let them out of his sight. Natasha had to draw the line at the bathroom after he insisted they follow him to the back. He could take care of that without them and they would be okay while he was occupied. But it didn't end even then. As the sun began to set and Bucky stared out the front window, antsy glommed on to needy and protective and began pulling him in opposite directions.

 

Creature of habit that he was, Bucky was yearning for his dusk run. But with Steve not there, not only was he without a running partner but he was also without a supervisor. Natasha tried to allay that concern.

 

"You can go without him, Bucky.We trust you on your own. Have your jog, it'll be good to get your mind off things."

 

His face softened then, but all the appreciation he might have felt could not overcome his stubbornness. "No. Thanks, but no. I'll stay here. With you two." The grab and go that followed took both Natasha and Sam by surprise.

 

"What we thought you meant, Buck, by 'I'll stay here with you two' was you staying with us inside the apartment. Nice as this is." Sam scooted carefully away from the edge of the porch roof, wiping beer off his jeans. "Not on a rickety overhang is preferable. Hell, we can all sit in the window seat and still do exactly this."

 

"We're all already out here," Buck replied, hopping down again now with his own beer and a deck of cards. "Besides, you haven't been out here with me before. I thought you'd like me sharing."

 

"We do, Bucky. This'll be a nice change of pace." Now that her pulse had settled and every nerve in her body didn't scream 'kill and run' Natasha found the view quite extraordinary. "Let's agree though that next time you haul us out of a window, you do so after warning us. Okay? I could have shot you. Out of surprise."

 

"But you didn't," he commented calmly, letting Wobbles lap at the foam of his beer. "I will though. Next time I jump out of a window with you on my shoulder I'll inform you beforehand."

 

"That goes for both of us," Sam added, though he sounded markedly less concerned, arm behind his head and beer in his hand.

 

"Both of you," Bucky agreed and passed Natasha the deck of cards. "Rummy."

 

The good behavior persisted through the sunset and a few games on the porch roof. Everyone made it back into the apartment without any injuries or tantrums, though, complaints abounded. These were mostly because of Bucky's method of returning them inside involved quiet a lot of clothing-caused discomfort. He promised to toss them over a shoulder next time.

 

"Why would you assume my belt was a good thing to lift me by, Buck? Seriously."

 

Bucky snorted in response.

 

"I mean, I haven't had my boxers this far up my ass since middle school wedgies were a thing. And I wear a harness-style flight suit. Fuck." He hopped around rearranging his jeans as Natasha attempted a similar goal but much less conspicuously. Belt loops were not for hoisting people she decided internally.

 

"You're lucky the pants are well made enough to survive that, otherwise you'd have much worse to deal with. Or we would."

 

Bucky had the courtesy to look mildly ashamed. He took a break from smirking at them to nod apologetically. "I did warn you though."

 

"Yeah, I s'pose you did."

 

Bucky's reply was cut off by the persistent beep, beep, beep of Natasha's secure incoming call alert. He lunged to answer it, but Natasha smoothly side-stepped and swiped the call connected. "Widow." She ignored Bucky's menace as the voice clearance processed. "Hill, how'd the visit go?"

 

"Actually, it's me." Steve's voice was taxed. Bucky must have heard it because he inched towards Natasha, ear first, trying to listen in. "We're leaving the facility now. I should be back in a few hours."

 

"Got it. I'll let everybody know." She made eye contact with Bucky, the everybody that mattered, and watched him sigh his relief.

 

"Thanks, and tell Buck I'm fine. He's probably been worrying."

 

"I will." The line disconnected as Natasha tried to catch Bucky's eye again. He avoided that at all costs, retreating to the couch instead. "Well," Natasha announced to 'everyone', "Steve's en route back. He's fine."

 

"Of course he is." Sam had finally readjusted to his liking and was opening beers at the counter, thumbing through something on his phone. "That means he'll probably be back in time for movie night. They're airing 2001: A Space Odyssey on SciFi tonight and we're all going to watch it, no excuses. It's weird as fuck but it's a classic and everyone has to see it at least once." He strutted over to the couch, beer extended in offer and flopped down beside Bucky. "Damn, Buck, our clothes weren't the only things put to the test on reentry. You ripped your shirt." He stuck his finger through the hole in the sleeve stitch on Bucky's left shoulder.

 

"Another?" Bucky exhaled in exasperation as he reached to feel the hole. "Goddamnit. I like this one." After transferring Wobbles to Sam's lap, he stripped the shirt off and inspected the hole. "How the fuck did I manage this?"

 

"Maybe Nat did shoot you," Sam teased, but Bucky kept pouting. "I dunno, man, these things happen. I assume. When you have super strength and a metal arm."

 

"Evidently," Bucky sighed and set the shirt down over his knees. "I think I can mend it. We'll see."

 

"You sew?" Sam asked, a little surprised.

 

"Evidently. You don't?" He deadpanned for Sam, but Natasha got a wink as Bucky passed. He was in a much better mood. "There's a kit in your bathroom, right, Natasha?"

 

"In the bottom left-hand drawer, yes. And bring out my polish bag please while you're in there."

 

Sam giggled as he laid back, Wobbles climbing up his chest to lick his face. "Changing your color again? I thought you just painted them the other day."

 

"I did, but I'm not going to paint my nails. Have you ever seen the old SSR logo, Sam? The one SHIELD's was based off of."

 

"Nope. Should I have?"

 

"Just look it up on your phone, will you? I may need some help with this one."

 

"Okay," Bucky called from the hall, "you don't have navy thread, but black should still work, right?"

 

"That's up to you, Bucky, and so is this." Natasha patted the cushion to her right, waited until he obliged and sat. She ran her finger over the flaking Commandos' wing she'd painted a week or so before. "I was thinking it's time to replace this," she tapped his shoulder, metal ringing gently under her nail. "What do you think?"

 

Bucky looked over to inspect it. "You can't just repaint the parts that have flaked off?"

 

"Well, I certainly could. If that's what you want me to do, but I thought maybe something different might be apropos today. Something like the SSR eagle…"

 

"I never got to wear that…" he cinched up his lips. "But I would have. Proudly. Peggy and Stark did good work. Phillips too. Yeah, Natasha, I think that would be appropriate. Paint it. … Please."

 

He sat still as Natasha removed the paint from the red star and let it dry. He was ruminating over something. It wasn't until she'd finished the base layer and was letting it set that he piped up about it. "What all has Steve told you about Peggy Carter?"

 

"That she was a bad ass and he was head over heels for her," Sam responded immediately. He set aside his beer and sat up, handing Natasha his phone. "There. As good a picture as I can find." It would work.

 

Natasha thought it over before she answered. She'd heard a lot about Agent Carter from several sources in addition to her own research, but Steve wasn't ever one of those that said a lot. "He cared deeply for her, I know that. She and he were supposed to have a date. That was the last thing he said to her before the HYDRA plane went down."

 

Bucky nodded along through that. "He did care about her, loved her. And like Sam said, she was an incredible person. A dead knock out. Could walk into a room and silence it but not give a shit about anyone in it, their opinion, their attention, except Steve. And she was intimidating. Smart and confident and fierce. She shot a whole clip at Steve against his shield, before it was tested, because he ticked her off. I don't know about afterwards, but when I knew her she loved him. They were…" he scoffed, "they were disgustingly perfect. I'd dated dozens of girls but none of them stuck like that. Steve… Steve he meets one and that's it. Game over." Bucky's chin dropped to his chest and nearly forced Natasha to start over. "It's never that easy though, is it? They never got their dance."

 

Sam sat up quickly, looking like he had a speech to give, but Natasha shook her head. Better to let Bucky go on this one too.

 

"You kind of remind me of her, Natasha," he said out of nowhere a few minutes later. "I bet that's part of why you and Steve get along so well."

 

Natasha suppressed a smile. She'd never considered that. "I'll take that as a high compliment, Bucky. Thank you."

 

"You should. … You should. There aren't many people that Steve admired or respected that much. Not for me either."

 

Natasha capped her nail polish and instead rested her hand on Bucky's back, waiting for the shuddering to stop. The SSR logo was a good choice.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait for this chapter. Unfortunately, that may become commonplace from here on out. Life is crazy these days. With this chapter the Relationships block is halfway finished, it'll be followed by a second half for FAMILY and then two chapters of INTIMACY (woo-hoo! But it's not what you might think; I'm sticking by my no full-out romance rule for this fic). Then there's only one block left, Higher Functions. 
> 
> Thanks again for sticking around, every time I'm on my Stats page I can't help but grin. Your hits and comments and kudos make my day. Cheers!


	13. FAMILY pt. 2

It became very clear as he was sitting in the car that, despite having spent so much time on many missions with Maria Hill, Steve didn't know her very well. In fact, it was like they were hardly acquainted, except for the fact that she knew some of the most intimate parts of his life. Then again, she knew those without him telling her. She didn't _know_ him, she _knew about_ him. And as for him… well, Steve knew next to nothing about Maria. He wouldn't even know where to start with her. At least with Natasha he had an idea of a backstory, with Sam too. But Maria? He had absolutely no idea.

 

This was inconvenient. It was inconvenient for the two of them sitting for the second time in a single day in the cab of a vehicle for multiple hours. They couldn't have a conversation, at least not one appropriate to the situation. They had chatted idly on the way up about Peggy, but now, after everything Steve had dealt with for the past six hours and the pain that came with it, he just couldn't bring himself to speak lightly on the subject again. And, as he'd already noted, he didn't know her very well, certainly not well enough to speak on the subject intimately. That would have to wait for home, for the three people in this whole world he could say actually knew him instead of knowing about him.

 

"I'm sorry, Rogers."

 

Oh, no. Here it was. The strain of the extended silence was worse than the discomfort of not knowing him well enough to broach the topic.

 

"I know it's no real consolation to you, my condolences, but I know she is important to you and that sort of loss is painful."

 

That was putting it lightly. "Well, let's just pray that Stark's facility can find some kind of innovation to save Peggy from that loss." Coming out of his mouth it sounded too Captain America, but Steve just couldn't speak on a personal level about this. He couldn't. Not right then.

 

"Of course." Maria Hill was smart. She could take a hint. "My mother had Huntington's." It just wasn't the right hint.

 

Steve didn't know how to respond to that confession beyond the generic and nearly meaningless, "I'm sorry." Now he knew something about her.

 

"I didn't mean to just dump that on you. That was clumsy. What I meant by that was… uh, I, in a way, can sympathize. Only a little, but I understand the nature of the loss."

 

Steve didn't know much about the condition Maria had named but it did sound like something he'd read about, something bad. Something degenerative. "I appreciate your empathy Maria. I didn't know you'd lost your mother. That's a difficult situation, I really am sorry. I lost my mother too, as a youth. Hopefully you weren't too young. That sort of thing can really mar a childhood."

 

"No, I wasn't too young. I knew what was happening and I remember it. And sometimes I wish I didn't, that I only knew my mother when she was whole and well. I… I hope that I haven't spoiled your memory of Peggy today, Rogers."

 

Steve paused then. So there was a real person lurking behind all that professionalism. "I'm of the opinion, Maria, that no time with a person you cherish is time ill spent. I'm grateful I was able to see her today because it meant something to her, I'd like to think. Besides, my capacity for memory is sizeable." He offered a small smile when she glanced over. "Today doesn't erase a day from decades ago."

 

"How's Barnes?" She almost blurted out.

 

Steve sighed. "Goodness, you are a one-two punch aren't you."

 

"I'm sorry. I'm being indelicate again. They used to tell me I had a condition."

 

"Really? What sort of condition is that?"

 

"No. No condition. Now I'm just lying because I'm uncomfortable." Maybe they would get to know each other a little after all. "I don't know how to make conversation with you, Rogers. I don't know how Romanoff does this."

 

"Well for one, she's a better liar." Maria snorted and he continued with a bit more seriousness. "And we've had the opportunity to get acquainted. That sort of ease helps. Though this is coming from a man for who the only woman he held a complete conversation with up to the age of twenty five besides his own mother was his best friend's mother. Not a conversational wizard over here."

 

"Barnes' mother?"

 

"Yeah, Buck's mother. Buck who's doing better, since you asked."

 

"I look forward to reading that report."

 

Steve frowned. "What report? You're working for Stark now."  
 

"True, but someone's going to write an evaluation on him at some point, especially if he's going to be invited to Avengers' tower."

 

"He's calling it Avengers' tower now?" He scoffed and then sat up a little straighter. "Wait, Stark is considering inviting us to the tower."

 

Maria shrugged. "Something Barton's been mentioning. I don't know anything for certain. Just a rumor in the ex-spy mill."

 

Barton. Clint involved meant Natasha would be or could already be in on it. Steve would approach her about that. But for now, in this car, he wanted that conversation closed. He changed subjects. "So, where'd you grow up, Maria?"

 

She looked over with brows raised. "Is this a lame first date, Rogers?"

 

"In a way. I'm just getting to know you so this awkwardness can be avoided some in the future."

 

"Good. 'Cause you're not my type."

 

"See? We're getting to know each other."

 

"Wow, you're not easily offended."

 

"Was that supposed to be offensive? Remember: spent the formative my years of my life as close to invisible as possible. Rejection, even if unsolicited, is an old, familiar friend of mine."

 

Maria smiled. "Alright. I'll give you that. So, I'm from Chicago…"

 

The remainder of their drive was easier. Small talk took up the vast majority of it and Steve was left to dwell on Peggy far less than he potentially could have. It helped that Maria was actually an excellent conversationalist. All the same, by the time she pulled into the drive of the firehouse, Steve was more than relieved to see the warm light spilling out of their front window. He wanted the comfort of his friends, his family essentially, and he wanted the freedom to grieve.

 

"Thank you for this, Maria. It was important to me." He hesitated closing the car door. "You're welcome to come up and talk to Natasha or… or Bucky yourself if you want." It was a horrible, weak attempt at courtesy. Steve winced as it played back in his head.

 

Maria seemed to sense the forced quality and just smiled. "I'm good, Rogers. Thanks for offering though. Take care."

 

Steve itched at his mask as the headlights backed away and then turned to taillights. That was uncomfortable. All the way through it never became comfortable. But up those stairs comfort was waiting for him. He chuckled weakly at that thought. So, this was home. He finally felt like he had a home again. That was important too.

 

A warm, strange greeting awaited him up those stairs. He stepped back from a series of hugs and gentle questions to assess the situation. It was indeed incredibly strange. Bucky had gotten to him first, pulling him into a quick, hard hug before asking if he was alright. Steve had nodded and given him a grin. That was neither strange nor unusual. It was what followed that surprised him. Sam, wearing only his pants hugged him and told him he was there if he needed to talk about whatever, whenever. He didn't even attempt to explain his unusual dress situation. This prompted Steve to glance back at Bucky, but nothing was off there. Bucky had all articles of clothing intact, and even so, partial nudity for him wouldn't be unexpected. It was for Sam and even more so for Natasha. She waited until last but none less boldly hugged him around the middle and assured him, hand firmly on his elbow, that she'd do whatever she could to help, all in nothing but her underclothes.

 

He couldn't avoid the elephant anymore. "Why are you two partially unclothed?"

 

"Strip Call of Duty," Sam explained like it was completely obvious and not at all remarkable.

 

"Of course. Strip Call of Duty…"

 

"What he means by that, Steve, is when one of us has the worst numbers at the end of a scenario that person has to remove a piece of clothing." Bucky provided that explanation, bending down half way through to pick something up and stand again. He was holding a dog by the end. Steve had no idea where the dog had come from. He'd address that later.

 

"So, I s'pose that means your winning, Buck?"

 

He smiled a little bashfully. "Turns out, I'm not a bad shot."

 

Steve chuckled. "But… Natasha is? I find that hard to believe."

 

"Nope! Believe it! We finally found something Nat is bad at."

 

Natasha rolled her eyes. "I'm usually an excellent shot on this game. My controller's faulty. It's delayed."

 

"Sure, sure blame the _controller."_ Sam was enjoying this far too much. "This is the greatest night ev--oh." He seemed to suddenly remember the nature of Steve's absence and quickly sombered. "Sorry, Steve. How are you doing? Was the visit… successful."

 

Steve found himself rubbing the back of his head, searching for a tactful answer. He dropped that pretense immediately. "It was hard, Sam. Hard seeing her that way, but it needed to be done. We can talk about it some tomorrow, if it needs to be discussed. For now, I think I just want to… I don't know… be. I'm going to go wash the hospital smell off. I'll be back." He smiled for them, this time genuinely as he saw the concern in each of their faces. "Go back to your game. Just, please, no bare rears on the couch. That doesn't seem sanitary."

 

They let him be as he went off to shower, but when he stepped out, clean and steaming, Bucky was waiting for him, laying on his bed.

 

"You're not getting off as easy as that, pal."

 

Steve scoffed, "I don't know what you think was easy about it."

 

"You come in here, act like you're fine and then say you'll talk about it tomorrow, if you feel like it? Uh-uh. That's cheating. If I gotta talk about my damage you should to. Come 'ere." Bucky sat up and thumped the bed beside him. "Sit. Talk. Or… sit and not talk… whatev--whatever you need." The rate at which Bucky came to second guess his approach made Steve chuckle. Yep. That seemed about right these days.

 

Steve sat, but he didn't talk. For a long time he just sat, staring at a spot on the floor in front of him. He didn't actually know what to say to make himself feel better. He wasn't sure he _could_ feel better about the situation. "This is a really messed up situation we've found ourselves in, Buck."

 

"You could say that again. SNAFU for sure. But really, what's new about that for us? It's been… what? Seventy-five plus years since all the shit around us wasn't fucked up, or exploding, or both."

 

"That's… well, that's true basically."

 

"So…"

 

"Yeah. So…"

 

"Did she remember you, Steve?"

 

It had only been a few minutes, but her eyes had been clear and her voice strong. She'd grabbed his hand so tightly, he thought she'd break her fragile bones just grasping. "Yeah, Buck, she remembered me. She remembered everything, for a little while. She… uh… she told me what she'd forgotten to tell me the last time we talked. She told me not to forget to be Steve."

 

"A wise woman, that one. If I'm not mistaken… someone else told you just to be yourself once, a long time ago."

 

Steve sighed. "Yeah, I know. You've both said it. Erskine said it too. I'll never forget, Buck. How could I?" It was never not going to be part of who he was. He was small and helpless first. Captain America came second. He cleared his throat and moved onto the next, almost harder part. "She also told me she'd heard about you. I guess her clearance is still valid. She wanted me to tell you to keep me in line, that it all went to hell in a hand basket while you were on holiday." Steve found himself laughing through tears. Bucky patted his back, a little choked chuckle answering Steve's.

 

"What a sense of humor on that one."

 

"Yeah. She… uh… she forgot when we were after that. She insisted we go that instant, that we were late for cocktails." It was getting harder to talk, the tears were fighting harder than Steve could resist.

 

"Hey. Hey, just cry, Steve. You'll feel better, trust me. And... and maybe she didn't forget. Maybe she was just taking advantage of you being there."

 

"No. No, she asked when the next blackout was. Uh… and she said she'd brought someone, a friend. She had a friend for you." Steve laughed in spite of himself.

 

"Geez."

 

"Yeah. We had a drink, some cranberry juice, and a good talk after that. But, uh, she didn't come back again. In a few hours, she didn't know who I was anymore either and she was asking after her mother. That's… that's when I left."

 

Bucky's hand found his shoulder and pulled him until they faced one another. "You alright?" Steve nodded. "You'd tell me if you needed something. Right?" Another nod. "Good. Don't bottle it up and deal with it on your own again. Hear me? Shit's too fucked up to be living that way. Now, say you won't or I'll have to say something cheesy like I used to."

 

Steve snorted, giving another nod. "Fine. I won't. Aren't you supposed to be the one with emotional trauma?"

 

"Hey. I'm not the only soldier defrosted this decade. Or with emotional trauma. It works both ways, pal."

 

"I've seen that. I've said that. Turns out I needed to hear it too. Thanks."

 

"Welcome."

 

Steve sighed, settling back on his spot on the floor and really letting the whole thing sink in. "Now it's really just you and me, Buck," he decided a bit later.

 

Bucky harumphed and patted Steve's back. "Like old times. 'Cept, now you wear a unitard to work and I can never take my uniform all the way off." He geared up the arm as proof. "Say, you wanna see my new shoulder art?" Before Steve could respond, Buck had stood and stripped off his shirt, turning to show him his left side. The SSR eagle stood out boldly in black from the silver. Buck lifted his arm to get a look at it himself. "I like it. Natasha suggested it as a way of commemoration. I thought it was appropriate."

 

"I agree. You know, after we were both gone, Peggy included you in the memorial, as a fallen agent. It fits. I like that one."

 

Bucky gave one of his more sad than happy smiles and then turned to the door. A little scratch prompted him to open it and pick up that dog again. Steve studied it for a second as Bucky returned to sit next to him again. That reminded him of something that had been wiggling in the back of his mind for a minute or so.

 

"Yeah, Buck, I like the SSR insignia a lot. I do. But I've got one for next time that I think is even better. It goes with a different kind of… branding. One for the future." He pulled out the sketch he'd been working on perfecting for weeks but finally finished while he was waiting for Peggy to become lucid again. The news from Maria Hill had only made this seem as though it was a more likely possibility.

 

"Oh, you want me in a unitard too. Is this to detract attention from you? You think if there are two grown men in gymnastics suits people will be less likely to stare? Well, I gotta tell ya, pal, the reality's the opposite of that." Bucky looked at him with a crinkle of a smirk and then leaned closer to inspect the uniform sketch.

 

"It's not a unitard, Buck. That's armored in the chest and just utility pants, like you wore… before."

 

"Steve, I don't remember you having the memory problems, but let me refresh you: I can say with certainty that my pants as an American and a HYDRA asset were never _just like that_. I won't be caught dead in pants that tight. You might wear 'em proudly, but I like to keep some things to the imagination. And… uh… are you sure about this?" He pointed to the left arm, kept bare in Steve's rendering. "I thought we wanted to rebrand me. A metal arm doesn't say 'good guy' anymore. If it ever did."  
 

Steve turned the page, showing the side view detail he'd worked out that morning. "Different artwork. This way we'll both have a shield on our left."

 

Bucky ran a finger over the shaded band of grey that they both knew was red, hovered over the white star. "I can tolerate _this_ star a whole hell of a lot better and I'd say it's public image is in my favor." The pages flipped back and forth as he considered them. "It doesn't match yours, does it though? I think matching outfits screams… well, I'm not your sidekick, Steven Rogers."

 

"No, no. It wouldn't match. I was thinking your Commandos colors would suit, but if you wanted black instead…" Bucky only shrugged indifference, so Steve carried on. "Bottom line, it wouldn't match mine. No sidekicks here. I was thinking more teammates."

 

"Teammates is better… though, when exactly do you see this being used? I thought I was reintegrating… Unless this is for your superhero squad, a uniform seems a little out of place for civilian life."

 

"Having it around couldn't hurt. We're not at war, but I'm hardly ever off duty. I can always use backup."

 

"Fine. But I won't be a publicity stunt. There'll be no prancing around for patriotism and shit. I will shoot, stab and maim so you don't have to, but I will not parade around. You wear the flag, not me. Like before."

 

"Like before," Steve agreed, trying not to grin. Someone had missed being in action. He was pretending indifference and skepticism, but he'd agreed to the idea pretty damn quick.

 

"And this shield on my arm, it'll just be a sign of solidarity. Not a sidekick. And, if we ever leave this town, I don't want my participation in the vendetta squad--"

 

"Avengers."

 

"That's what I said. I don't want that publicized. People can discover who I am if they do their research and figure it out, but that's the only way. Announcing my resurrection, defection, return and rebranding in one move is a stupid ass, idealistic plan that I can already see you formulating and I won't be a part of it."

 

"Okay, okay," Steve conceded, smile unhidden by now. Bucky was getting all worked up as a defense mechanism. It was to keep him from feeling too enthusiastic, a pessimist's bread and butter. "You'll be an independent contractor. That's fine. We can even continue to call you the Winter Soldier still, if you prefer that."

 

"I do."

 

"Okay. Then, that's the plan. I mean, if this is even feasible. Other paths, better paths may open up to us."

 

"What sort of other paths?" Bucky sounded suspicious and disappointed. "You're part of this wunderkind coalition. If I can't be part of it, how is that a better path?"

 

"Don't worry about it, Buck. We'll sort it out. Promise."

 

"Fine. Good. I can't leave you alone. You do stupid shit when you're alone. Everybody knows so."

 

They sat in brooding silence for a minute or two, Bucky clearly ticked off about the possibility of Steve abandoning him, or whatever he read into the alternative paths spiel, Steve staring at this dog that seemed to have become an integral part of their household in the seven and a half hours he was away.

 

"So, Buck… uh, on that last note… when did we get a dog?"

 

Bucky's chagrin quickly turned sheepish. He laughed a little and scratched his jawline. "I, uh, I may not have been ready for you to be away yet today… Steve, meet Wobbles. Careful, her back leg is not great." He handed around the dog so that she sprawled out on her back on the bed between them. "I did something impulsive. She's uh… she's with us now."

 

The little dog's belly was warm and soft, and when Steve rubbed it she stretched her legs out and closed her eyes. He couldn't help but smile. This was precisely something Bucky would have done when they were stupid kids in Brooklyn. He was not at all surprised. "You did a good thing, Buck. This is the good kind of impulsive."

 

* * *

While Steve and Bucky were having their heart to heart in the back, Natasha had been stuck between admitting defeat and quitting Call of Duty or revealing quite a lot more in that living room than she had initially planned. Luckily for her it was almost time for the movie to air and too close to finish another game, so Natasha was allowed to maintain her dignity on both counts.

 

_2001_ was one of those films that Natasha had seen and had understood the 'classic' status of it, it was ground-breaking and resonant on multiple levels, but that she just could not motivate herself to actually enjoy watching. And yet she'd seen it half a dozen times. Instead of being antisocial, which was her first knee-jerk reaction, Natasha gathered up the internal components for their phones she'd bought that day and began regutting them. Multitasking wasn't something Sam would take offense to, right?

 

She caught a few exasperated glances from him when her screwdriver clacked too loudly, or a piece snapped into place, but most of Sam's disappointment was directed at Steve and Bucky's door. He had wanted this to be movie catch up night as well. And those two weren't participating.

 

The movie had just transitioned from weird to unsettling when Natasha finished with her phone. As soon as she powered it back up a notification tone rang out. It was a text. Encoded source. An encoded source that read 'Hawkguy' in a transposition cipher her brain automatically used. Clint was texting her now?

 

_Your time of year. Tomorrow. Get ready for snow._ A link was attached, showing the forecast for a huge Artic Northerner coming in midday the next day.

 

But that wasn't all. That was never just 'all' with Clint. He was up to something. Natasha could keep up to date on the weather forecast on her own. The message had to be indicative of something else. That or Clint was simply bored. Also a possibility. She pondered over that as she started in on Sam's phone.

 

"Beer?" Sam asked, seemingly out of nowhere and startling the wiring from Natasha's hand. He pulled an over expressive frown and picked up the wire for her. "Whoa there, chica. Jumpy all of a sudden, are we? What's up?"

 

"Weird text from Clint," she admitted before she could stop herself. The cat was out of the bag already, so Natasha shrugged internally and handed Sam the phone so he could read it. She trusted him. And this could possibly affect him just as much as her. "I was just trying to work out what it meant." She waited patiently as he squinted at the screen but her mind was already racing on to other things. Codes and symbols. She hardly noticed when he started talking again.

 

"Huh. So, this is the guy you're always on the phone with? Cryptic." He handed back the phone. _"Or_ he's just warning us about a cold front. But, uh, you know him better. Beer?"

 

"Thanks." Natasha went back to staring at the guts of Sam's phone and turning over the meanings of the text. The inane commercial playing in the background kept distracting her though. "Have you ever known a person to purchase drink on the basis of gender standards?" She wondered aloud after Sam handed her the promised beer.

 

"As a matter of fact, yes. But I've known some serious ass clowns in my time."

 

"Humph. Then that commercial does have an audience."

 

"Sadly, yes. Hey! You guys decided to come back out!" Natasha turned around at Sam's exclamation, smiled at a significantly less gloomy pair of super soldiers. "You're just in time for the best part. Sentient computers don't freak you out, do they?"

 

"Uh…" Steve blinked and then looked over at Natasha. She shrugged. "Not unless they used to be a person."

 

"Nah, this one just becomes self-aware."

 

"Sounds lovely," Bucky grumbled, sitting next to Natasha and taking her beer. "You're not watching?"

 

"I am. A little. I've seen it before."

 

He scoffed. "Not good?"

 

"It's a matter of preference."

 

"Not good."

 

"We'll give it a chance, though. Won't we, Buck?" Steve sat on her other side, fresh beer in hand for her. "Sam likes it."

 

"Yeah, sure."

 

"And you're okay, Steve?" The television muted briefly as Sam grew more serious. "If this isn't a good time, we can make adjustments. You know how--"

 

"I'm good, Sam. Thanks. Let's watch this. Now, what have we missed?"

 

The quality of the movie was a matter of preference. Unfortunately for Sam, preferences were against him. Steve, open-minded as he was, had a whole slew of questions that did a number on the atmosphere of watching the movie and disrupted the continuity of the narrative. Bucky plain did not like it. And he didn't hold back from expressing that opinion. In time, his discontent melded with Steve's line of questioning and suddenly the movie had a running commentary. Natasha actually found it pretty funny. Bucky had a sharp, though dark, wit to him and Steve joined in with his sassier answers without a blink. Sam eventually gave up and added his two cents as well but without his usual spunk. He was a little deflated.

 

"No, you were right, Sam. That was enjoyable."

 

He rolled his eyes in her direction, flipping the channel to something else, Steve and Bucky arguing over who had said a particularly clever pun first. "Not exactly how I planned it, but at least y'all watched it."

 

"And enjoyed the experience," Natasha reiterated. "Here, Steve. Yours is all finished. Bucky? Phone, please."

 

"Thanks, Nat."

 

"You're not going to lose my music shit, are you?"

 

Natasha shook her head and reached out farther, snatching the phone from him despite his hesitation. "No. No shit will be lost. I'm a pro."

 

"Yeah," Steve yawned, showing Bucky his screen as proof. "Natasha knows what she's doing. Well, I'm bunking in. Long day."

 

"Mm-hmm. Me too. That bed is calling my name in its most sultry voice." Sam stood and stretched, tossing the remote onto the couch. "It'd be rude to ignore it.

 

Goodnights were said and the room grew quiet, the tones of the nightly news playing as background noise. Natasha tucked her hair behind her ears and popped open Bucky's phone.

 

"That was a fucking odd movie." Natasha had figured Bucky had stayed behind, but she hadn't checked to see. She was right. The sound of paper rumpling told her he was out there doing more than glowering at the news. "Really fucking weird."

 

"That's just about how I feel about it." She pulled out a drive and set it aside, glancing over to see what Bucky was continuing to fidget with. It was Steve's sketch book. "You have a good talk with Steve?"

 

"Yeah. Yeah." What a full answer. There was almost too much information to process there.

 

"That's good. I'm glad you two have each other to talk to now." She was just filling dead air at this point. If Bucky was going to confront whatever was making him fidget with that sketch book, he would do it on his own, in his own time.

 

His own time was in another twelve minutes. The newscaster had just relayed another horrible piece of information about something terrible when Bucky clicked his tongue loudly and turned to face Natasha. "You heard what Sam said earlier, didn't you?"

 

"Sam's said a lot today, though…not so much as usual… but yes, I've heard it all. What are you talking about specifically?"

 

"About people who matter. About how their opinions will take account of my situation fairly."

 

"Yeah, I remember that."

 

"And you think he's right."

 

"To an extent, yes. We've been over this before, Bucky. You just got to give them a chance and then work through whatever happens."

 

He scoffed. "Yeah. I know. You're all singing the same tune, but I don't know if you all back it." Natasha looked up at that, cocked her head to the side. Bucky took a deep breath and continued. "It's something Steve said earlier, after showing me this." He slid the sketch pad over. Natasha handled the uniform design carefully, turning the pages Bucky had been futzing with until she saw the whole ensemble.

 

"It's snazzy. I don't understand how this is making you question our _tune."_

 

"Well, he said it's a possibility. But then that there may be other options."

 

Natasha hesitated. Had Steve suggested that Bucky join the Avengers lineup? That was a little premature on his part, but then again the word had been flitting around their circle already, according to Clint. "And you want my opinion as to whether this is a real possibility or not."

 

Bucky nodded. "Will your other oddballs accept me? Because this has been the carrot Steve's been holding out for me, that the ones like him and me will understand, that I'll fit in. Was he just bluffing?" His face shivered a little as he waited for her to answer. "I need to hear it from you, Natasha. You're the most practical person I know… though I only know three people really… but, I know you'll be straight with me, since I'm asking."

 

Natasha sighed, laying aside the pieces of his phone and holding Bucky instead. He needed the hug even if he didn't reciprocate it just then. The shivering of his face stopped at least. "No matter what, Bucky, Steve is not going to abandon you. Keep that in mind. That said, I honestly don't think it'll come to that. It'll be hard work, joining the Avengers. Being seen alongside Steve and the others will put you in the public eye and under scrutiny. You'll face hate mail and verbal abuse and people will question you being there. But that won't stop the others from believing you should be there. If they don't already think so, they'll come around eventually. I mean, really, all you have to do is bat those dark eyelashes of yours and then watch their hearts melt."

 

He sucked in his lips and pulled away from her a little, but Natasha kept her arm firmly around him. "No, but really, they can't deny facts and Steve's just about the best advocate a person can get. If he doesn't sway them, I'll _change_ their minds. The same with the public. Once they see you in action there will be no question and you'll have me and Steve in you corner. Little kids'll be asking for this uniform for Halloween in no time."

 

That siphoned out a smile from him. "Thanks, Natasha." He squeezed her lightly and then worked at disentangling himself from her. "That's what I needed to hear."

 

"You're welcome. I'm here all week."

 

"I always wanted a little sister," he said quietly, leaning over to kiss the top of her head on his way past. "Though I'd always seen myself taking care of her."

 

"Well, I'm not actually younger than you at this point!" Natasha called back.

 

"Yeah, you are, but you're not my sister either," he smirked over his shoulder. "Take care of Wobbles for me tonight, will ya? I don't wanna kill her in my sleep the first day after saving her."

 

"Yeah, sure… _bro."_ Natasha watched his door close and then looked over at Wobbles curled up on the spot Bucky had just occupied. "Just us girls tonight, little lady." She opened one eye and then rolled over to show her belly. "Yeah, we'll have a good night, you and I. We don't need those boys. Come here, любимец."

 

That was the best night's sleep Natasha had gotten since the Winter Soldier event had started.

 

* * *

Whatever else Nat read into that text from her absent paramour, that dude had been very literally correct in his warning. Shit got cold the next day. Morning started out fine, sunshine with the yoga, a little breezy out with Buck letting Wobbles do her thing and then, ka-blam!, motherfucking frost on the windows just after noon. Their Baja chicken pizza lunch felt strangely unseasonable, them being able to see their breath inside and whatnot.

 

"Do the radiators not work in this place or am I incompetent?" Sam was eye level with one of the bastards, trying to figure out why turning the knob on the thing changed absolutely nothing. "They're stone cold."

 

"I'll go talk to the Chief," Natasha sighed, reaching for her shoes.

 

"You may not need to. This technology I know." Steve stepped around Sam, completely bypassing the little knobby thing and kneeling beside the radiator's wall connection.

 

Bucky edged up beside him to peer over his shoulder. "We've got tons of experience with these things. Yeah, I bet the gas feed isn't even on for them."

 

"Yeah." Steve stood back up, wiping the dust from his hands. "Usually that feed is for the whole building. You have to turn it on each season manually. I bet the Chief just forgot. It's probably in the basement. I'll go find it. You guys sit tight. Stay warm."

 

That was funny. Sure, Buck and Steve had pulled on sweatshirts and remarked on the cold, but they weren't bothered by it. Neither was Nat really. She seemed content in her little flannel button down and house shoes. Friggin' super soldiers and Russians. And Russian super soldiers. Sam was having to physically force his jaw together so his teeth wouldn't chatter. He'd pulled on a bunch of extra clothing and still wasn't comfortable and these assholes were making him look like a pansy. Again. Stupid cold snap. Stupid non-functioning radiators. Stupid super heroes. For once, Sam would love to not be the only regular guy around. It would help his self-confidence, a thing which he'd never had much trouble with before. Stupid mildly above average abilities. Now, if they were all sweltering through a desert summer he'd… still be suffering the worst. Or maybe not, the second worst after Nat probably, but he couldn't know for sure. Maybe her Russian spy training desensitized her skin to the elements. Either way, it would be better than this.

 

He needed a beer. He could brave the extra chill of the refrigerator for some day-drinking relief. Wow. That sounded pitiful, even inside his head. Maybe Steve was right, he needed help. Meh, AA meetings were there, he'd cross that bridge… at some point. Except maybe not that soon, because someone was trying to make their apartment a dry county.

 

"Okay, guys, seriously. What is the deal with the binge sleep-drinking?!" He didn't even care that he was significantly colder, standing in front of the open fridge.

 

"Uh, are you sure it isn't you, Sam? I mean… fuck, it's one in the afternoon." Buck sat away from listening to the radiator to judge him with his stupid critical-yet-concerned face.

 

The fridge door slammed, harder than Sam'd intended it. There might have been some bottle breakage inside. Sam couldn't be sure because he was stomping away, and by god, his storming out was going to be one thing he didn't fail at. "You guys are killing me! You're literally killing me."

 

"What's wrong with, Sam? Did you say something, Bucky?"

 

Even through his door, Sam could hear them. It was his superpower, hearing every damn thing that happened in this damn apartment.

 

"I dunno. Maybe it's the withdrawals."

 

Sam growled his frustration into his pillow as he waited for the footfalls heading in his direction. They brought with them Nat. "Sam? " She knocked. "Sam, is everything alright? Whatever Bucky said, you know he wasn't being sincere. He doesn’t have a filter and he only operates on two levels: snide and sullen."

 

"Three. There's a combo option," Buck's voice added in from farther off.

 

When Sam didn't answer the door crept open a little. Nat wore her softest expression. "Sam… what's going on?"

 

"I'm good at things, you know."

 

She frowned a little and shut the door behind her. "Yeah, we know. We all know that your good at quite a few things."

 

"I'm good at shit and I'm useful to have around. And in my own right, I'm pretty damn impressive."

 

"We know that too." Her confusion was slowly changing into something more knowing. "Is this… is this a crisis of self you're having? Because being around super heroes can do that to you. Trust me. It doesn't matter how expert you are in as many trainings, being around--"

 

"Oh, don't talk like you're in my camp on this one. You make me look like I'm still in JROTC."

 

Nat took a step back, brow furrowed. "Excuse me?"

 

"You're excused. And you're as bad as the sons of Krypton out there. You can do a million things and you're psychic and don't even get me started with the temperature tolerance."

 

"Temperature tolerance?..." She looked at him, actually noticed him for a second and frowned harder. "Wait a second. Is this because we're not acting _cold_ enough?"

 

"Can you even feel it? Can your superhero skin cells even register discomfort?" Sam could hear the crazy in his voice. He could. But for some reason, be it the sleep deprivation, the weeks of soul crushing displays of his ineptitude, or the cabin fever, his brain could not shut off the word-spewage. "I mean, you act normal, but I've never seen you sweat." Now, that was a straight up lie. He'd left the station. No conductor in the cabin.

 

Now Buck was in the doorway, scratching the one day old beard he'd neglected to shave that morning. "Sam, I respect you too much to lie right now. You sound like you've sprung the coop. The loony coop."

 

"Sam." Nat had that face on, that 'I'm dealing with a volatile situation' face. She stepped slowly towards him with her palms up. "I don't know what's caused you to arrive at this place, but I'm going to tell you that it sounds like you've gotten a little paranoid. Stress can do that. It's okay that you're cold. I'm cold too. So is Bucky. Look, he put on socks."

 

Buck was wearing socks, hilarious red, white and blue socks that he'd obviously stolen from Steve's novelty sock collection. Sam heard himself laughing. Yep. He'd cracked. Cracked like an egg. "Sorry, guys. I'm in the cocopuffs. I'm coo coo for 'em. My ego couldn't take it anymore and… and the beer! Where is the beer going? It's an actual mystery and it's driving me actually crazy. Literally."

 

"You don't have to apologize. This has been stressful for all of us. Stressful enough without comparing ourselves to one another. It's not a competition, if it were, with these sorts around, I'd already be out of the running, years ago."

 

Sam nodded along. He knew where she was going with this. It could be him saying all this to another person. And yet, he needed to hear it apparently. He was the one freaking out over showing physical weakness. Man, his dad had done a serious number on him. All that 'be number one or don't be anything' shit could push him to a psychological break still, fifteen years later. Nat was still talking meanwhile.

 

"… a matter of developing a tolerance. I grew up in worse weather than this. Now, the heat, that took more time. If you remember, I was sweating unattractively during yoga this morning. But, I think you know all this. There must be something else instigating." She looked him over hard. "You're not sleeping, are you?" There it was. The psychic power. "You're showing the classic signs of sleep deprivation: irritability, heightened proneness to stress, paranoia."

 

"I think he could use a sedative," Buck quipped from the door. "A good nap and we'll have happy, charismatic, non-alcoholic Sam back. I vote sedative."

 

"But really? Who's drinking all the beer?"

 

Nat gave her most pitying smile. "Yeah. What do you think about another sedative, Sam?"

 

It had been an oil-slicked slippery slope down a chasm of crazy, the last ten minutes. A sedative was looking more and more appealing. He needed to reboot, to start over fresh. He was bodily shaking at this point, teeth clattering, arms shivering, spazzing out. And he didn't care anymore.

 

Just then the front door snapped and Steve's voice floated down the hall. "All right, feed is wide open. We should be warming up soon. And good thing too, it's like the eastern front down there and moving up the stairs… uh, what's going on?" He stopped in the doorway, pulling off his holomask.

 

"Sam's not feeling a hundred percent and we're considering his options."

 

"He's gone cracker jacks and we're thinking about tranqing him before he hurts himself," Buck translated, tact completely set aside.

 

Steve's face fell. "Just tell me what's happened and I'll take care of it."

 

"I think it's the situation in general, Steve," Nat cut in, heading towards the door. "Our situation. Being around your sort takes a lot of energy and Sam's had a nonstop dosage beyond what any first timer is ready for. I'm impressed he's lasted this long. I almost didn't last half this with just Tony Stark, and that was with some training."

 

"We're doing this to you, Sam? I'm so sorry."

 

"Well, more me probably," Buck corrected. "Sleep deprivation. It's causing the root of it, the irritability. Say, Sam, you been wouldn't'a been having headaches lately besides yesterday's, would ya? 'Cause, that would explain the alcohol dependency too. Bunch'a guys self-medicated for that sort of thing back in the day."

 

Sam nodded. He was suddenly very tired, like admitting all the issues he'd been bottling up had left him lighter. "I've not been sleeping great. Guess it's my crazy competitiveness. And your screaming. Can't stand being so…" he yawned and laid back, "so… so… mediocre."

 

"Here, Sam," Nat's pretty green eyes reappeared in the twilight of his vision. She really was so pretty. Why hadn't he told her that? People liked hearing that sort of thing. "This'll help you stay asleep."

 

It all faded away pretty quickly after that. When he woke again, he felt like a new man. He was warmer for one. He didn't hate every fiber of his being for another. And that dull pounding in his head that had been around for so long he'd not realized it was there and had had other headaches on top of it, that was gone too. He was revived. He didn't immediately reach for the ibuprofen beside his bed and wonder when it would be appropriate to start drinking. It was a miracle.

 

What was in that sedative? The clock told him he'd been out cold for six hours. Six whole hours. No wonder he felt better. That was more sleep than he'd gotten in the past three nights combined. And it was better sleep. He didn't have a single nightmare.

 

There was a glass of water waiting for him beside his bed and a pair of novelty socks, this set with bald eagles on them. That made Sam chuckle. Finally. He could appreciate these people again. He didn't want to set them on fire to see if they'd burn. Man, that had been a dark place he'd been making camp in, because he loved being here, helping out these guys, these heroes. They were like family. But then again, they were  _like fa_ _mily_ , so his dark place wasn't so unusual. It wouldn't be a family if you didn't consider ways to murder them all without being caught at least a few times.

 

As he got ready to go back out there it also occurred to him that you could be completely honest with family. It was time for that too. The universe supported this plan too. When he opened his door, it was like they were waiting for his return, even talking about how insensitive they'd been. Something about having a regular person in the group.

 

"… just normal. It's creating an unnatural psychological environment. And we need to be better too. I suppose we were all caught up in our own issues, but that's really no excuse. If we don't take care of each other this whole arrangement will fall apart." Steve stopped talking as Nat nudged his leg with her foot. As usual, she was the first to respond to the situation.

 

"I hope you feel better, Sam. Sorry for it taking us so long to figure out something was wrong. We were all caught up in our own things, it seems. Next time, it'll be easier if you--" That was enough out of her for now, Sam decided. Nat could be his first target.

 

"Nat, I'm gonna stop you there, I got something to say. You're fine as hell and incredibly intimidating in the sexiest way possible. If things were different, I'd take you out and respect you so hard. At this point, though, we're not in that zone anymore and you're verging on the irritating over-achieving cousin role. If you'd let someone else be in control of things for eighteen seconds, the atmosphere in this place would de-charge significantly."

 

He rounded on Steve's unsuspecting mug next. "Steve, I admire you so much and you're freaking Captain America, but you're so fucking oblivious sometimes. Like seriously man, you make everyone feel like shit like it's your job. Tone that perfection-act crap down. You too, Buck, the showboating without trying thing is infuriating. Oh, and Steve, if you don't dye your friggin' hair soon you're going to look like you escaped from a 98 Degrees album booklet cover. Cool guy tips aren't cool. Especially in reverse."

 

He turned last but not least to the cause of this whole mess. "Back to you Buck, you've come such a long way so far, so just own up to that and stop acting like you haven't! It comes off like you're fishing for affirmation, which if you are that's fine too but be up front about it. I'll affirm you to the moon, just let me make the decision to do it instead of guilt-tripping me. Also, what's with the tough guy front? You adopted a broken teacup dog, for god's sake. We know you're a nice person. Your secret's out. You don't have to keep pretending like you don't give any shits. You give the most shits, we all know now. You can be an asshole if you want but don't play like it's just how you are, defense mechanism or not. And, by the way, the super intense assassin-meets-model walk, it's over and done, man. You're not on a murder spree anymore, you don't need the death-swagger strut."

 

Somehow, Sam felt even lighter than before. He let out a deep breath and then nodded, content with his rant. Better.

 

The room was slow to react, everyone blinking as they absorbed his tirade. Everyone except Buck, he was on the ball.

 

"That's just how I walk, you ass. You try having solid metal instead of bone and tissue and skin for one whole appendage and see how balanced you are when you move. There's a big weight difference. It takes some compensating. Dickbag."

 

"Oh, well, I rescind that particular comment. Not your fault you can't contain the swagger. Arm gives you moves like Jagger. My bad." He didn't feel that bad about it, though, even when Buck stomped off and slammed the door behind him, all with his arms held conspicuously stiff and unmoving at his sides. "Man, that's a weight off. I feel a ton better. Sorry for the insecure psychosis earlier. I seriously underestimated the importance of sleep for my mental health. Whew."

 

"That's… that's fine, Sam. We, uh, we understand and… it was mostly our fault." Steve's eyes kept darting back towards his door as he spoke. He was preoccupied but trying so hard not to be. "And it's not like we didn't earn the repercussions. Sorry for that as--"

 

"Oh, go check on him, Steve. My damage can wait. _He_ might burst through the wall and start ripping people's heads off, on the other hand. Go." Sam returned the apologetic grin tossed his way by Steve and then flopped down in his chair, picking at the very sad dinner fare in front of him. "It's not like he's the Hulk though… oh well. Uh, did y'all fish dinner out of the garbage or something?"

 

"No…" Nat pulled at the curl that never stayed in place beside her eye. "We made it. Well, I made it. Sort of."

 

"Nat, just because it comes out of a box doesn't mean it can't be made with care." He stabbed at the pancake. It felt like it was made out of a box, not the mix inside. "Man, y'all're just helpless without me," he chuckled as a tease, but it struck true.

 

Nat snorted and ran her hands through her hair. "We do take advantage of your help around here, yes. And your direction. As good as he is at helping you, Bucky had no idea how to prepare a meal without you. And Steve… Steve doesn't cook well with guilt on his mind. So, it fell to me. Turns out, all I really _can_ make is cereal." She sniggered as the pancake clattered from the plate onto the table. "We are sorry, Sam, for neglecting you."

 

"Not a biggie. Half's my fault, not actually speaking up 'bout what was eating me. Imma order take-out. That alright with you?"

 

She pushed him a menu snatched from a nearby drawer. "Please."

 

* * *

Bucky wasn't really all that upset. In fact, he was wrestling with Wobbles over a sock when Steve made it back into their room. He grinned as the door shut behind Steve. "Sam okay?"

 

"Yeah… you?"

 

"Mm-hmm. I was a little… pissed about his comment but that passed easy. Wobbles, drop the sock. Drop it." It was the least stern his voice could possibly ever have been.

 

Steve let his shoulders loosen. Everything was fine. No cause for concern in here.

 

"Drop it. God, you're a terrible dog." He ruffled her ears and then glanced back up at Steve with a smirk. "Well? You just gonna stand there?"

 

"What?"

 

"Get dressed, punk. Sun's setting. Why d'ya think I'm wrestling this sock from Wobbles? For fun? Drop it. Good girl!" Bucky, grinning his oldest grin, gave her another scratch and then pulled on the slightly sodden sock.

 

"I like that dog, Buck. She's good for you."

 

Bucky scoffed, pulling off his shirt in exchange for another and a sweat shirt as well. "Yeah, well ya should. She's basically you as a dog."

 

"What?! Hey, I was small, I didn't have a bad leg, though."

 

"You had a list of medical conditions taller than you were."

 

Steve conceded as a knock opened their door. "Yeah, alright. Alright-- Hey, Sam."

 

"Oh, free strip show in here, Nat!" Sam was seeming like his old self. He turned back with a grin and held out a paper menu. "Pick something. We're ordering take-out. Y'all can have yours when you get back from your marathon. You might even beat it here. I'll be back on kitchen duty tomorrow."

 

"Thank God," Bucky said behind them. "Natasha should never be allowed to fix a meal for anyone. Ever. Unless she's killing them, then it's up to par."

 

"You could have cooked something too, Barnes!"

 

Steve stifled a smile as he flipped through their options. "Uh, I don't really know, Sam. Pick something you like? Maybe? I bet I'll like it, you have good taste."

 

" _Great taste_ , but okay. Buck? Preference?"

 

"Whatever Steve's having," Bucky replied without looking up from his shoes. "I don't really give a shit s'long as it doesn't taste like the Russian cardboard pancakes out there."

 

"Right. Two Mushu chickens to go with mine. Got it." The door tapped shut as Sam wandered off.

 

"He sounded better," came Buck's immediate comment. "Jokes're much better."

 

"Yeah. We need to pay better attention though. This whole thing could have been avoided if we'd only--"

 

"Done the right thing and made better choices, yeah, I know the drill Steve. You feel guilty. It's your fault. You should. Have seen. This coming!" He slammed his fist into his palm with each point, and then rolled his eyes. "Let's move past it. I did my part, acting offended for his benefit, now you do yours and stop being so goddamn perfect for thirty fucking seconds. And put a hat on. He's right, your hair's absurd. Makes me feel like killing people."

 

The air was crisp and cutting for their run. Steve eventually appreciated the hat that Bucky had shoved on his head. It kept his ears warm. The sunset didn't last as long as it had last time, just like that sunset was shorter than the one before it. Days were getting shorter. Winter was on its way. Something about that made Steve nervous. He hoped sense memory wouldn't do anything for Buck anymore.

 

Almost in spite of all of that fretting, Buck was particularly high-spirted on their run. When Steve asked if this weather didn't make him feel a little gloomy, Bucky only shrugged and told him it gets cold in the wintertime. That's just the way things are. He didn't seem to make any connection there and Steve was forced to grant that Bucky might actually be recovering. It was a weird thing to fight himself over. When Bucky pointed out a freshly laid billboard for a new exhibition in the natural science museum in the nearest city, Steve gave it up completely and just enjoyed the run.

 

"Yeah, sure, because seeing a bunch of dead people posed without their skin is a recipe for a good time."

 

"It's interesting. You see how the body works. And there are animals too."

 

Steve shivered a little and turned them back onto the main road. "Maybe. We can suggest the trip to Natasha. But, frankly, I've seen enough skinless faces for my whole lifetime already."

 

"This is different. They're dead. And not a psychotic Nazi. You have to look at it from an objective distance."

 

"Just seems a bit morbid to me." Steve rolled his eyes at Buck's enthusiastic smile. "You're so… bookish sometimes."

 

"Bookish? It's science. You like science. For the future and shit."

 

"Ugh. You and Stark will get along."

 

"Hey, does he still do the Stark Expos? Because that was a good time."

 

"I'll get back to you on that…"

 

They did indeed beat the food back and Steve sufficiently lost his appetite while waiting as Bucky detailed the content of the exhibition. Thankfully, nobody else thought that particular outing was a good idea at that time, as, ahem, interesting as it sounded. Also thankfully, Buck wasn't at all discouraged by that. His mood was on an upswing for now. And it stayed up through dinner, Natasha's adult hot chocolate debacle, and the group's first attempt at charades. It helped that Steve and Bucky dominated at the game.

 

"No! No. I cannot accept that. You seriously cannot have known that he meant that. You can't." Sam kicked over an empty beer bottle as he was flailing at Steve.

 

Bucky stood still miming Maltese Falcon by simply pointing at Wobbles then back to Sam. The smirk he wore was a little upsetting. So pleased with himself. Steve could barely contain his laughter. It was witty on Buck's part, though admittedly it was a long shot.

 

"It's just 'cause we know each other so well," Steve explained.

 

"No, you're right. It is. This is the fifth round you've proved that to us. So we're scrambling players. You two aren't allowed on a team together."

 

"It's fine. It's fine," Bucky scoffed, taking off Wobbles' papoose and passing it to Natasha. "I'm done anyway. Shower time."

 

Sam turned to Natasha. "Be the switch?"

 

"Fine," she sighed. "But I'm horrible at this game as it is."

 

Natasha really was horrible as several more rounds of over-detailed charade-ing proved. She just had not mastered the idea of simple gestures. Or sounds like. Sounds like would have been helpful to her. Also, her guesses were laughable. Always overthinking things.

 

"Nuclear war! Mushroom cloud! Uh… Umbrella?"

 

"I'm a flower! A goddamn flower!" Sam gave up then and there, returning to the kitchen for a mugful of disaster-coco.  "A FLOWER."

 

Steve patted her knee and got up as well. "S'alright, Nat. You'll get better."

 

"A flower? How was that a flower? Flower's don't bloom that quickly!"

 

They continued that deeply philosophical debate as Steve shuffled back to his room. Buck had been back there even longer than usual. He had a sinking feeling the mood swing had swung back. His first glance seemed to confirm this suspicion. Bucky'd made it out of the bathroom at least. The steam had subsided, though the room was still warmer than usual and the mirror had been wiped clean. He was sitting on his bed, towel around his waist and Steve's shield on his lap. At the sound of Steve entering, Bucky looked up. His face wasn't what was expected though. He looked quizzical.

 

"How's this stay painted?" He asked immediately. A metal finger ran over the surface with a small scrape. "It's pretty durable."

 

Steve had never really thought about it. He took it in from time to time to be fixed up but he never really wondered about how it was fixed up. "Stark tech, I suppose. Why?"

  
Bucky clicked his tongue. "Nothin'. Just wondering. Well, no, that's not true. I'm peeling already." He jerked his head to his left. Sure enough, Natasha's rendering of the SSR eagle was flaking around the edges. "Didn't last as long as last time. Might be the type of paint."

 

"Maybe… I mean, I'd be glad to ask if--"

 

"Don't worry 'bout it, Steve. I was just wondering. Stark tech…" His little reverie faded and he tossed Steve the shield. "Thanks. Now, leave. I'm putting pants on."

 

Despite how well the day had ended up and in spite of all of Steve's best attempt, sleep was just not coming to him that night. He kept wandering back to Peggy. It didn't matter how he started, counting sheep, thinking about plans for the next day, wondering what Buck was saying in his sleep, all roads led to her eventually. How well Buck was suddenly doing only made him think about how poorly Peggy was. How poorly they'd handled the situation with Sam drove him to wonder if, had Peggy been around, they'd have figured it out sooner. Hell, when he thought about what they'd have for breakfast in the morning, he wondered if Peggy would think that that breakfast represented him remembering to be Steve enough. He was in a bad way.

 

And when he finally submitted and allowed himself to think about the visit the day before that way got worse. Sam would have smacked the back of his head if he could hear the waterfall of 'what if's' raining down in his head. He even began turning over whether or not no news was good news from the facility or if Maria would even tell him if anything had changed one way or the other. He was tormenting himself.

 

"Buck." It was a rash decision, but he needed his best friend on this. Right after he finished trying to kill him. "Buck, it's Steve," he whispered sharply, blocking the swipe with the knife. Always the knife. Where did they come from? Steve probably should have waited until the angry Russian dreaming had stopped. Oh well. Another dodge and Bucky finally sees him. "Buck!"

 

"Steve? Steve." His eyes cleared and suddenly he looked even angrier. "What were you thinking? I could'a killed you, dipshit." He looked him over and frowned. "You didn't even have a weapon. I told you, only wake me if you can put me back out when it goes bad. Damn you." With a sigh, his temper fizzled out. He must have seen the circles under Steve's eyes. "What is it? You look like you haven't slept. Was I screaming again? Maybe you should take a sedative like Sam--"

 

"No, it wasn't you, Buck."

 

"Oh." He cracked his neck and made room for Steve to sit. "Then, what was it?"

 

"Peggy."

 

A long, deep sigh. "Yeah. That makes sense. Tell me."

 

"I dunno, Buck. I'm all over the place." Steve paused, waiting for Bucky's pithy response. None filled the silence. He was listening attentively, eyes catching the light of the moon as he scanned Steve's face. "I… I, uh, can't let anything just sit right. I always have to do something about it, right?" A flash of exasperation darkened Bucky's expression as he rolled his eyes. Steve kept on, "yeah. That's not always a good thing, I know. But with Peggy… I don't know if it is or isn't."

 

"You can rationalize your way into a corner here, Steve, or you could just tell me what's eating at you. Up to you."

 

"It's been years, Buck, years that I've wanted to move on, to let the fact that Peggy had her life stand and give me comfort, but… I… it's not so simple as that. It's not so simple as 'Peggy did it, I can too.' She's still around. She still needs me, I guess. If I were to move on and have a life by writing over what I'd had… or wanted to have with her, it'd feel like I'm betraying her. Disrespecting her, because she's not gone. She's still around and deserves me to be there for her. And now it's worse-- no, it's more vital that I not… move on, now that she's… she's losing herself. I feel guilty about it, really. When she can't remember, it's my responsibility to and I can't do that if--"

 

"I'm gonna stop you there…" Bucky laid a hand on Steve's shoulder and looked at his knees, clearing his throat and smoothing back his hair with the other hand. The classic lecture-formulating moves. "Listen, Steve, and really listen to me. You're not doing anybody any justice or favors by thinking that way. Not you. Not Peggy. Nobody. Now--no, listen." He held out a hand as Steve moved to respond. "Listen, Steve. Think about it this way: did you make new friends?"

 

"What?"

 

"Come on, get your head out of your ass. Did you make new friends after I died?" When Steve could only open and shut his mouth, Bucky continued, "yes. Yes, you did. Did you forget about me? No, I think not. Am I getting through to you in there? You can live a life that does not center around Peggy without forgetting about Peggy."

 

Steve must have looked surprised, because Bucky rolled his eyes yet again and gave Steve's shoulder a squeeze. "Yeah, I'm insightful. I know. But seriously, Steve. This is what you should do, I hope it's what you did when you thought I was gone. Otherwise, you're disrespecting her in a different way, by using her as an excuse, which is not what she means to you. That's so much less than what she means to you that _that_ is the insult to her. She, and I wouldn't have either, by the way, doesn't need or want to hold you back from a life. From her point of view, she had her life and there wouldn't be anything to be sad about unless you forced this responsibility onto her of keeping you from living yours."

 

"She's already said she regrets that for me."

 

"Yeah, well, there. Listen to her, Steve. But that doesn't mean you can't be there for her either. Do what you need to do and support her for as long as you can, but move on. Emotionally. You can love someone else too. I know, I know. Sounds ass backwards coming from me and God knows I'm not equipped to be handing out advice on emotions and shit but, in your situation, I'd be happy for her, glad for the time I had with her, and I'd use that experience to help with others. I know you fell in love with her. She was your first fling. You wish you had that dance. And she might have been _the one_ back then, if you'd had that path and taken it, but she's not the _only_ one." Bucky grinned a little, looking for all the world like he used to handing out pointers on Steve's stoop. "We both got second chances at life, yeah? How much you wanna bet gals are a part of that? For you. Me? I had my fair share already, I think I'd say." He paused to smirk, shook Steve's shoulder a little. "And now I've got a handicap of sorts, I'm out of the running, but you're far from it. Just… you know, give yourself the chance."

 

Steve felt a bit like crying, for moments like this lost. Instead, he laughed. "What is this? I'm getting advice from you twice in as many days? And on heavy stuff… I thought you were supposed to be the stupid one…" What wasn't there to laugh about? Moments could be made up for just as easy. Exhibit A.

 

"Yeah, well, I am but all that time getting your head bashed about playing full-sized action-figure took its toll on you, I guess. I never was slow enough to get hit, ya see. That's what happens when you eliminate higher mental faculties. No ethical judgment means quicker reaction time," Buck snorted bitterly, back to his base point from the light mood he'd been sporting almost constantly the last eighteen hours or so. Or maybe not. He changed the subject and his tone quickly. "So, who's this Sharon girl Natasha mentioned the other day, huh? You seemed to know--"

 

Buck didn't get a chance to finish that observation. The alarm poured through the apartment and disrupted everyone's night at top volume.

 

"Hero-mode activated!" Sam shouted as they scrambled out into the hallway. He was just pulling on his pants, eyes still heavy with sleep but he had consciousness enough to make a joke.

 

"Well, that was a good talk, Buck." Steve darted across the hall to check the alarm read out.

 

"Yeah. I'm more than a pretty face."

 

"Smart ass. I was trying to thank you. Damn. Fire."

 

Natasha tumbled out into the hallway at this point, sending a cascade of cans rolling across the floor.

 

"What the hell?"

 

"I don't know! Just move! We'll figure it out when we get back."

 

"Are these shaving cream cans?"  
 

"Wilson! Move it!"

 

As much as Steve wanted to find out about the several dozen shaving cream cans left outside Natasha's room--because Sam was right, that's what they were-- he knew they had a much more pressing matter to focus on. A house fire. A real one, a real bad one at that. It was a call from the campus area but not an actual university building, a professor's house. An old hundred-yearer all of polished wood. It would go completely up in flames really quickly. The pressure was on as they set off in the engine towards campus.

 

"Should'a known one'a these would happen tonight," Sam said, pulling on his top layer gear. "First cold snap of the year, hardly any warning and it's a bad one. People haven't had time to get their radiators warmed up, the basements are tundra. Whatta they pull out? Those shitty space heaters that haven't been used in years and then leave 'em running for hours. Over night. Poof! Insta-house fire."

 

"Well, thanks for the hindsight prognosis, Smokey the Bear. That'll come in handy. Now, remember what the manuals said. We've got two stories, stay in pairs and check your atmospherics. Don't advance if the floor is hot, it could give out." Natasha sounded cool and calm but she was white knuckling the steering wheel of the engine like Steve had never seen before.

 

"We know, Nat. We've read the manual half a dozen times. You made us. There was even quiz night two weeks ago. And it's Smokey Bear, which is for forest fires. So…"

 

"I'm not a natural citizen and you know what I meant! And it was a good thing I had you prepare, because… this is going to be a whole different animal…" Her voice grew subdued as the front window of the cab lit up. There was no question where they were heading.

 

And Natasha was right. This was a whole other animal. Reading and drilling were one thing, scenarios only prepared you for the idea. This was the whole shebang, glaring light, heat pouring through the air, smoke in your mouth and eyes, flames leaping out of the windows, and the worst, the screams of panicked people trapped inside. That varnished wood really did just go up like kindling. It was all running and panting after that. Natasha shouted some orders, which Steve heard himself relaying and the two of them were off, Natasha to cut of the fire from spreading and hopefully at the source, and Steve to get the family out. Sam stayed put, working the water with Bucky assisting.

 

Sam could see that Buck didn't feel comfortable basically loitering by the pump, but Nat had told him to stay put. What was he gonna do? Well, and this was really just a guess, but perhaps he could go running off into the burning building without warning. Sam shouted at him to stop, to think, but that was really a lost cause. So, he stayed out front, alone, hoping his rash friends didn't get charbroiled, and dousing the house as strategically as he could.

 

Five minutes in and he was starting to sweat. Not because of the heat of the fire or his suit, which he couldn't feel from the chill of the air and his adrenalin, but because of the quickly elapsing time. He hadn't heard a peep from them on the radios or seen them. His throat was growing drier than just the smoke could cause. He wanted to go in after them, but the flames were not under control and the water was the only thing helping at all on that count. So Sam stayed put, keeping the exits as fire-free as possible.

 

"Come on, you guys. Come back. You've faced worse than this. It's a fire, not an alien invasion. You're superheroes! Come back." He gritted his teeth and opened up the hose all the way at a new flame breach in the roof. Something was still seriously burning inside, but at least Nat seemed to have stopped it spreading to other homes. It was contained. Just contained around his friends.

 

Sam just thought he was a panicked mess then. It proved so much not the case when he heard the first support beam crack. He knew it was a big one, one of the structural posts necessary to the integrity of the whole house by the sheer sound of the crack. The roof tumbling in on itself in the rear of the house helped too. With every crack that followed Sam winced more and more and felt his limbs less and less. He jumped once out of hope when the radio crackled with static, but his calls were unanswered. Soon he was contemplating how he could rig up the hose to keep pouring water on the house when he wasn't holding it. He was just securing it to the ladder when the front door came flying off the hinges and skidding across the front yard.

 

Never in his life had Sam felt his stomach flip and then implode with that kind of relief as he felt just then. Steve came barreling out, mask attached to the face of a small child on his shoulder and leading a man and woman, both of whom were fighting to run back into the house.

 

"Oxygen masks, Sam." Steve didn't seem to care that he used the wrong name, and why would he? His face was blackened with soot, breaths coming in scratchy gasps. "And keep them here. Buck!?! Help over here. Bucky?" Steve laid the little boy down in the truck and secured masks to the parents faces, then looked around when his calls weren't answered. "Sam, where's Bucky?"

 

"Uh… he ran inside--"

 

"HE DID WHAT?!"

 

"Yeah, he ran in after you. God, you didn't see him?"

 

"NO. Damn it, Bucky Barnes! I'll--ma'am, you have to stay here." He held back the woman, who had stripped off her mask and tried to dart back towards the house.

 

"My girls, my two girls were trapped in their bedroom upstairs. We have to go back in! We have to save them! Please! Please let me go! Please… John, the girls!" She shook her husband, who look like he'd suffered the worst of the smoke inhalation and could barely keep his head lifted.

 

Steve sat her back on the steps of the truck and re-secured her mask. "I'm sorry, ma'am, you cannot go back in there. The structure is compromised. But my partner's in there, our teammate and he'll save them. I'm sure of it…" He gave her his most heroic, affirming, confidence-brimming nod and then turned away, face falling immediately. "Sam, can you keep them here?"

 

"The man's out and so is the boy, but the lady… yeah, yes, I'll keep them here." Sam changed his tune when he saw the look on Steve's face. It was imperative that Sam keep them there.

 

"I'm going back in. Don't do anything stupid."

 

"You mean like you're doing?!" Sam called after him but then felt the lead pit return to his stomach. Where was Buck? Where was Nat?

 

It was not even a minute before Steve came stumbling back out, hacking his lungs out and patting the sleeve of his suit down. Sam helped him with a short blast from the hose and then jogged over.

 

"You alright?"

 

"Kitchen caught. Grease and oil fires now. Smoke's too thick. Even for me."

 

"That's what your mask's for, dummy." Sam helped Steve back to the truck and went back to hosing the house down. They might have to call in for backup from the next town. The hydrant provided all the water they could use and yet the house was still burning, even if not as badly. Steve seemed to read his mind.

 

"I'm phoning back to the firehouse. The Chief will call us in assistance."

 

"No, I'll do that." Sam took off his helmet and shoved it and his tank towards Steve. "You go and save Buck-- oh shit."

 

It was an explosion. An really loud explosion, but no flames erupted, nothing splintered and flew across the yard. Instead the fire seemed to die.

 

"What the hell?" Sam and Steve asked in unison.

 

"MY GIRLS!" The woman wailed then choked on her shouts but didn't move. Her eyes were fixed on the door.

 

"Bucky!" Steve coughed and sprinted towards his friend's charred shape. Sam couldn’t help it, he followed. It wasn't just Bucky either. He had the two girls draped over a shoulder and three cats squirming by the scruff of their necks in the other hand. He'd lost a boot at some point and his left arm was alarmingly metallic in the streetlamp light, but he looked to be fine.

 

"Bucky, you stupid, hard-headed idiot!" Steve cradled one of the unconscious girls in his arms and glared daggers at his friend. "You could'a gotten yourself killed."

 

"Jeanie! Lanie!" The woman sprinted to them, began grasping for her daughters.

 

"Ma'am, ma'am, please. They need oxygen." Buck gently moved the woman aside and continued his murder walk towards the truck. "And, as for you, Steve. So could'a you, but you didn't and I didn't. And these girls are here. And these cats. Here, Sam." He shoved the hissing, scratching, yowling balls of ungrateful fur into Sam's chest and began strapping oxygen masks onto the girls faces. "Where's Natasha?"

 

"No report yet, but I'm guessing the fire-killing boom was her."

 

"You guess correctly." Nat was strutting back their way, helmet on her hip, suit blackened and pocked. "Did we get everybody out?"

 

"You had three kids and three cats correct, ma'am?" The lady nodded, tears leaving lighter streaks on her sooty face. "Then, yep. All out. How'd you do that, by the way? Killin' the fire with an explosion seems…"

 

"Counterintuitive? Fire extinguisher-sand controlled detonation. Suffocated the worst of it at its source." She laid down her gear and began checking over the victims. "And they're all breathing? Ambulance on the way?"

 

"Last radio chatter we heard it was five minutes out, should be here any minute. So, uh… how'd you… what did you… how?"

 

Nat grinned. "Don't ask. I know fire and I know explosions. I always keep stuff for both on hand, just in case. Good thing we ran into town yesterday or that could have cost me my eyebrows." She turned back to the boy who was waking up and coughing, only looking up from him when the balling of the little girls picked up. One of them, apparently did not want to let go of Buck. She was petrified to let go of him in fact. He was handling it as best he could. Steve was hovering.

 

"I… I… I… your mom's here now. You're safe. I…I need to hand you to her." He tried to disentangled his neck from her spindly little grasp, but was too hesitant, probably scared of breaking her. She continued screaming. "There's no more fire, kiddo. You… gotta… let… go." He finally pried her arms free and handed her to the mother, who in turn began crying, but she managed words, a few, thanking Buck and Steve.

 

Being the experienced superhero he was, Steve accepted her thanks graciously and modestly. Buck on the other hand turned a startling shade of red and lost the ability to form sentences. If that wasn't enough, Nat shut down entirely when the woman hugged her, only recovering when Steve loudly announced that the ambulance was approaching. Sam accepted the gratitude floated his way by the slowly wakening father and thanked his stars the kids didn't latch onto him. Even being loaded into the ambulance it was a cacophony of tears from the girls and 'thank you's from the parents. All very overwhelming.

 

"That… that was… not what I expected." Buck was the first to speak in the truck on the way home. It smelled like burning hair and wood smoke in there with them.

 

"What did you expect?"

 

"I dunno. Not that." He shook his head, face slack. "Those kids… they saw my arm but it… she wouldn't let go."

 

Sam scoffed. "Yeah, it's funny how when you save people they overlook your physical imperfections and focus on your heroism."

 

"It's called appreciation, Buck." Steve clapped him on the shoulder. "You'll find it less disarming once you've experienced it a few times."

 

"She… she was hysterical. Wouldn't let go. I thought I was just going to have to ride in the ambulance with her. Didn't wanna break her trying to get free."

 

"You saved her from what was probably her first experience of true mortal terror. She didn't want to let go because you became equivalent to safety." Nat glanced over her shoulder as they pulled into the garage. Only then did Sam catch sight of the gash over her right eye. "I wouldn't have at least, at that age."

 

"She'll be fine, Buck, if that's what you're worried about. You didn't hurt her by handing her over."

 

Whatever they said, it didn't really matter. Buck was still shook up, stayed shook up as they hung up their gear and trekked back to their apartment.

 

"You can go ahead and shower, Steve, but I'm at least going to wash my face. Alright?" Sam kicked through the sea of shaving cream cans, officially too exhausted to care anymore. He just wanted the smoke off his hair and face and then to dive into his bed and back to a dreamless, sedated sleep.

 

That was until Steve flipped the light on in the bathroom. Buck, wiped as he was, walked right into him but didn't move either, both of them just staring into the bathroom. Curiosity returned then.  
 

"What? What's wrong?"

 

Then Sam heard it. The most exasperated sigh ever breathed on earth, all the way from Nat's bathroom. "Barton…"

 

Even more intrigued, he stepped up behind them, peered past their heads, and then let out a peel of laughter. There were snowmen, dozens of shaving cream snowmen covering every surface of the room.

 

"Well," Sam chuckled, seriously hoping he'd meet this Clint soon, "he did warn us to get ready for snow…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> INTIMACY is next... but not for a while. 
> 
> Your readership is greatly, massively, titanic-ally appreciated!! Cheers!


	14. INTIMACY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! FYI this chapter group, INTIMACY, started off as a side project tangentially related to this enormous monstrosity of a fic, but then as I developed it more and more I decided it fit the themes and aims of this story better than a standalone project. This explains its extreme length and the breaking (slightly, only very slightly) of some of my rules for this fic. Okay, enough disclaimers, onto the first of two parts in Intimacy.

After the shaving cream snowmen incident, Natasha had half a mind to find Clint Barton, stun him unconscious, bind him with duct tape, and kick him into a sewage ditch.

 

They were a real pain to clean up and half the surfaces they were on never looked or felt quite the same as before. That might have been because they all left it until the next morning to clean up, but who could blame them? It'd been a hard enough night at is was. And then, they kept popping up. All over the apartment. For the next week and a half. Sure, cleaning them up just irritated Natasha, they were a minor inconvenience, but their _existence_ infuriated her. Specifically, how Barton continued to evade her security measures, to enter the apartment without getting caught, and to leave these ridiculous prank surprises in the most conspicuous places. Because the snowmen weren't alone.

 

No, one day they were accompanied by dry-erase marker captions and profane drawings on every glass-like surface of the place. Another, with polaroids of all of them sleeping. And once, he even used the last of their food to reconstruct the Battle of Saratoga. Sometimes there were notes, messily written and hardly legible, sometimes little presents, a bag of saltwater taffy or a pocket knife circa 1944, but always there were the stupid shaving cream snowmen. He must have bought out a big box store's supply of the stuff.

 

His ability to pull it off and her not catch him almost won her over to the idea of tracking him down. And when it did, she was foiled, or rather frustrated again. The damn carney was in the wind. He'd been MIA back home, the kid hadn't seen him, all his devices were offline and he wouldn't return her contacts. He knew her too well. He knew his actions would elicit a not-so-pleasant reaction from her. So he'd gone off the grid.

 

She could have easily had her retribution all the same. There was just one thing she had to do and his location could be hers. It's just that that one thing, that one little call was something she just couldn't not bring herself to do. She wasn't ready. She would not call Nick. His slight to her still smarted, his trust in Hill and not Natasha made her chest feel punctured, like she couldn't keep the air inside. Some wounds just didn't heal like one would hope. Yes, she had worked with him afterwards, after it was all revealed, after Natasha had had her world overturned and then had her ribs kicked in, but she'd done it for Steve, by Steve's orders. Now… well, she didn't know what she would do when Fury requested her service again. She could move past questioning the trajectory of her life, past questioning her own moral judgment, but she could not yet handle her integrity being questioned by someone with whom she'd thought she'd shared implicit and complete mutual trust. The cost of being a spy.

 

No, she would not call ex-director Nicolas J Fury. Ex-friend? Ex-father figure? She wouldn't call him, whoever he was to her now, to activate Clint's tracking node. After the mind control fiasco of 2012 SHIELD tracking implants had become standard, but knowing Clint, he'd already found it and dug it out. So, calling Fury for that would be a waste most probably, a waste on all counts. Those were her two reasons for only being of half a mind to find him. The third was the guys' reactions to him.

 

Overall, it seemed Clint's nocturnal visits didn't bother them all that much. Once the shock of cleaning dozens of pounds of shaving cream faded, they came to find the antics charming, each to some degree. Sam loved them. He found each enormously entertaining, even the first. Bucky Clint had won over from disgruntled skepticism by leaving a vintage collection of whiskey glasses, clearly stolen from Stark's tower one night. And Steve, Steve never had a problem with Clint, despite his tired sighs with the return of the snowmen each morning. Instead, from the start he merely mentioned how Barton's presence might finally be warranted. After that, the pranks always elicited something from him along the lines of 'if we just invited him officially, this nonsense would stop.'

 

Natasha had considered that, seriously. She had. Barton could hypothetically be a welcome addition to their domestic situation. He could also potentially derail it. Things were steadily improving and Bucky had been past the danger zone for what felt like months now, but it wasn't a sure and fast status. Every night threatened regression, every time he moved from consciousness to sleep they tossed a coin. It hadn't happened yet, but it was a very real possibility that he could go to sleep Bucky Barnes, haunted ex-assassin and Steve Rogers' best friend, but wake up the Winter Soldier, HYDRA asset and cold-blooded programmed killer. Natasha didn't care to think that his mind was that fragile, because it terrified her to her marrow, but she had no true precedent to follow, no proof to the contrary. Adding another person could provide that proof. It didn't help that that person was himself a false precedent.

 

She would never voice that fear, doing so could be a catalyst, but that didn't make it less plausible. So, she kept saying it was about personality types, that they were working as a group and why fiddle with something that was working fine. Weak excuses that Steve saw right through, but he was cautious enough not to call her out on them. They had an unspoken agreement in that regard.

 

The masterpiece of mischief she found in their kitchen that morning, though, that was nearly enough to overcome all her hesitations. It was a good thing Natasha could see so well in the dark. It would have been a very rude awakening for everyone else if she couldn't.

 

"Where did he get this many dominos?" She wondered under her breath, staring at the hundreds of them set up in intricate, winding patterns all over the floor. Just one more step and she would have sent them toppling over in a cascade and with them the dozens of empty bottles poised in their paths. It would have been quite the clatter and far too much crashing for two forty in the morning. And then, on top of all those dominos, she would have had broken glass shards to pick up.

 

He was desperate for attention at this point. It had been a good week or so of Natasha telling Steve they weren't ready for Barton to join, but she'd been telling Clint that for nearly the whole time, constantly. He was feeling left out, he had good ideas, he was bored, he hated phones, Katie was irritating him. The list went on and on, but Natasha only had one response: no, it's not a good idea. He apparently had become fed up with that answer.

 

Tiptoeing around the edge of what looked to be his old carnie tag, Natasha yanked off the most recent note left taped to the door. This one was a specimen. She read it twice to try to understand it, and then once again when she did, looking at the dominos then back to the note. It was basically unintelligible and not just from his normally messy handwriting. He had been world-spinning drunk when he composed it.

 

_Hey you all you guys, just me. Did the thing with the things. Sorry about it and that I drank it all. It's gone. Sorry that I drank it all. Needed the glass for the shape. Sorry too for the vomit. -Hawkguy_

 

Natasha didn't _see_ any vomit anywhere and that made her very nervous. As did Clint's intoxication level upon leaving this apartment. She couldn't hold out anymore. She called him with every intention of finding him where ever he was if he answered. If he didn't… well, then Hill could find him for her.

 

Luckily, whether because he'd forgotten to turn it off in his drunken stupor or because this was part of his plan, his phone was on when she dialed. It rang several times before the line connected, and even then it took some time before he answered.

 

"'Lo. 'Tasha. You…" a gag, "you called."

 

"Clint, you idiot. What were you thinking? You could have gotten yourself killed!"

 

The sound of retching filled the line and Natasha waited with teeth gritted. "Oh, that's still a very real p'ssibility."

 

"Where are you? I'm coming to get you. You could have alcohol poisoning."

 

"Dunno. Somewhere… piney. Lotsa leaves and smells. God, my head."

 

"Yeah, you're lucky you're even conscious. Was it worth it?"

 

"Stop yelling." She was actually whispering. "Did you like it? The tag?"

 

"It's a masterpiece. Where are you?"

 

"Mmm, I'm glad. Gonna go throw up my guts now. Bye." The line went dead, Natasha's tracking failing with it. His phone was off when she tried dialing back.

 

"Damn it, Clint!" She snapped, stepping back to lean against the counter and forgetting about the dominos. It was much louder than she'd anticipated after all. It was an early morning for everyone after that. Then she found the vomit.

 

"Where are you going, Natasha?" Bucky had caught the sleeve of her jacket, several hours and a massive kitchen clean up later. Objectively, she knew why he had shadows under his eyes and a frown on his face. After an early and severely alarming wakeup call, anyone would have been tired. Add to that tedious collection of dominos, sweeping of glass pieces and then mopping up of spilled alcohol and vomit, no one would be happy. But, that concern for his hypothetical assassin switch tickled her.

 

"Nowhere, " she decided as she announced it and slipped off her jacket. "I changed my mind. We can replace the alcohol tomorrow, right Sam?"

 

"I don't care what you do. I'm taking a nap." For once he wasn't giddy with appreciation for Clint's prank. It didn't help that with it, Sam'd discovered the culprit for the long-running missing alcohol mystery. "B'sides, store ain't open yet."

 

It was true. Nothing was open at six in the morning that sold liquor, not that they knew of. Clint would have to survive on his own, in whatever pine forest he found himself in. If her incomplete tracing program was correct, he was only a few miles from them, probably in the national park. He was most likely safe there. Most likely.

 

"Is Barton alive? Do you know?" Steve asked quietly from the sink. He was still washing the vomit from his sweat pants from when he'd slipped in it.

 

"He's alive."

 

"And you're not--"

 

"No." That sealed the deal. Natasha definitely was not going after him now. This kind of acting out couldn't be the spurring factor for his arrival here. It was too controversial. If Clint was going to be brought in, it needed to be on a good note, not an irritating, vomit-covered one. "He'll be fine."

 

"Okay. If you say so."

 

For a second, Natasha missed the simplicity of the shaving cream snowmen. Good thing she didn't have to miss them for long. They were waiting for her in the refrigerator, in every spot a bottle of beer or liquor had once stood.

 

* * *

 

"So, I gotta ask. And I know it's for like the thirtieth time, but I'll stop once you answer. Is this Clint guy just a friend of yours or is he a _romantic_ friend?"

 

Steve waited as Natasha considered this particular iteration of Sam's now daily question. Honestly, Steve didn't know the answer with any amount of certainty and, while he knew it wasn't their business, he had become a bit curious.

 

"Today, I cannot honestly say whether or not he is either." She set aside her pliers and began stripping wires instead. Normally, explosive-building at a kitchen table would make Steve nervous, but he was used to it with her. She was always making something or other.

 

"'Cause you're mad at him or 'cause you're confused by the prank?"

 

"Or because you don't know if he's dead somewhere?" Bucky added in lightly without acknowledging its morbidity.

 

"Something like that."

 

"Do we need to go find him, Natasha?" If Barton's safety was in question, they could leave their cover for a few hours. But she was steadfastly opposed to considering anything on the matter at any depth.

 

"No. Speaking of romance, that's one thing I don't know about you guys yet. Who have you dated? What are your dating preferences? Top or bottom? Discuss." She sounded anything but interested, she just wanted the focus off of her and Barton. Sam took the bait.

 

"Dated? I've dated some girls in my day. No, that's not honest, quite some. But I've only been romantic with a select few. And with those women, it didn't matter: top, bottom, sideways, upside down, only that they had me where they wanted me. Because, let's be real here, we're only having a _really_ good time if she's happy."

 

"What qualifies as a 'select few' in your book?" Natasha asked, still without looking up from her device.

 

"Oh, you know, six."

 

"Six? That's… that's a _few_."

 

Sam pursed his lips, not liking the tone of her 'few'. "And what's a few to you, Nat?"

 

"More than six. I'm impressed, though. You're selectivity is indicative of a higher than average degree of self-control."

 

"Yeah, 'spose. And I was in a war zone for a while. That limited my opportunities."

 

"We know that constraint, lived through it." Bucky waved a hand at Sam, kicking up his feet on the table, only to have them pushed off by Natasha. "--Oof. Get back to the good stuff. What's your ploy?"

 

"My ploy?" Sam seemed honestly taken aback. "I'm a soldier, Buck. I don't treat in this spy stuff. I'm straight up."

 

"Oh, come down off your lying horse. Everybody's got their ploy. What's your date spot when you're gonna make things steady?"

 

"Make things steady? Buck. Come on, catch up. When I'm gonna take things to the next level?" He waited for the nod. "Oh, well, first, I gotta get the signal."

 

"The signal? You mean the excuse to be alone? She makes up some pretense for going off somewhere less crowded."

 

"Nah, man. Not anymore. I just need the arm graze. If she's touching you when there's no reason, she's ready for the heat to dial up. And once I've received that loud and clear, I take her to the zoo."

 

"The zoo?"

 

"The zoo!?!"

 

"You do not."

 

"I do. I take her to the zoo-- stay with me here. I take her to the zoo on a day when the weather's nice. We see the animals, enjoy the sun and fresh air. Everybody loves seeing bears cuddling as they sunbathe or giraffes walking around in pairs. And when the outside's nice, you feel good. It sets the mood. Then we walk -- because walking's more intimate, let's you talk and brush your hands together -- to a frozen yogurt shop."

 

"You're kidding. Your ploy is to treat a lady to a day as a child again?"

 

"Yeah. It makes her feel comfortable. It's innocent-feeling fun. Just stay with me. Right, so she's had a good day, feelin' good, and healthy because of the walk and the less shitty treat. You're both eating, now one on one but not isolated. You don't seem like you've got an agenda. Everyone's just having fun. Families are around, ones with little kids. You watch to see her reaction to them, mention loving kids. That is a live wire for a lot of women."

 

"Honest soldier, my ass. You're a sociopath," Natasha interrupted with a smile.

 

"I'm an observer of the human condition. Anyway, she's thinking about what damn good daddy material you might be, how you're sweet and fun and not all about the bed-game. Then, you pull out the clumsy, spill some yogurt on yourself. Not her, that is not the way to go, do not ruin her clothing. Spill some yogurt, maybe drop your spoon, either way you lean over to get a napkin and brush against her. I avoid being a groper and aim for arm or hand. Then I fail to get it all. Nine times out of ten, she'll reach over to help out and laugh. I'll make a big fuss out of it, make a joke about how I'm a clutz and then comment on how wasting my flavor is a shame. 'Cause it's so good. If she doesn't ask on her own, I offer for her to try some. Now we're talking about tasting, thinking about mouths. When I give the spoon to her, I slip a little again, get a bit on her lip and wipe it off with my thumb, right? Now I've touched her lip, then I lick my thumb. Now she's watched me touch her mouth and then touch mine. The mood's set, I make my move. Usually, she meets me halfway. It'll be a modest kiss, nothing racy, but we know it tastes good, know it feels nice from the cold. Then I ask her if she wants to take a pint back to my place. Sign, sealed, delivered."

 

"That is incredibly intricate."

 

Sam shrugged. "Whatever, it works. Last four times I've tried it, it's gotten me all the way to where I wanted."

 

"That's it?" Steve was almost underwhelmed. He'd expected much more drama from Sam, with all his big talk and wit. "No lines, no boasts, just the zoo and your accidently on purpose frozen yogurt spill?"

 

"Yeah, man. Girls know when you're throwing them a line. You gotta show 'em you're genuine by doing. Actions speak louder than words, and all that stuff. But I know y'all's type. The smooth talkers. Buck, I just know that was your style. Look a girl up and down and give her a line. Ballsy bastard."

 

Buck shrugged, pulling a thread to knot with his teeth and left hand. He was mending the shirt he'd torn that morning in his surprise. "Things were different then. I didn't have to play around, mincing intentions. I just told them what I wanted, why I wanted it from them. Usually did the trick."

 

"Mmm, frankness and objectification. The good old days." Natasha was on a roll.

 

"Hey, it wasn't always shallow. These were nice gals. They deserved respect, I knew that. It's just… people like compliments."

 

"Yes, they do. But you have a lot to catch up on, Bucky. I'll get you some literature on it."

 

Bucky blinked unhappily at Natasha, somewhere between mortified and offended, and then didn't say another word. Natasha had a point, Steve had had his eyes opened to some things, but Bucky had his intentions in the right place. He never meant any disrespect, that was for sure, and he was always polite, but Steve had learned that wasn't enough. It was an adjustment in your way of thinking over all.

 

"Huh, that explains your weird half-baked approach, Steve. I'd been wondering why you've got these zingers of wit, like that laundry coffee one you told me about using with Sharon, but then you never follow through. Your go to is a line but you want to be progressive so you--"

 

"Wait, what? You made a move on this Sharon already? The one Natasha mentioned?"

 

"Yeah, Buck, but that was before you shot Nick. Her cover was blown after, I couldn't really… follow through. The situation changed drastically." Steve knew he sounded defensive but he had to explain himself. Bucky was looking at him like he'd picked a fight with a bully again and gotten his ass handed to him. "Complications arose."

 

"No, no, no. That's not the only time. It's a pattern with you. But it's okay, you just need practice, like you do with everything else."

 

Steve could feel himself flushing from navel to hairline as Natasha spoke. Bucky, of course, noticed it, as well as the tone to Natasha's comment.

 

"And just what does he need practice with, Natasha? Besides asking women out?"

 

"Small talk, kissing, oh and--"

 

"Kissing?"

 

"Yes, kissing. You get rusty when you're out of practice."

 

"Natasha, please…"

 

Bucky ignored Steve's discomfort completely. "No, I know the reason _why_ Steve would need practice. His experience in the whole department is seriously limited. I was wondering how _you_ would know."

 

"Oh, I kissed him when we were evading a STRIKE tac team in the mall."

 

His chair screeched as Bucky turned it completely around to face Steve. "You had a chance to kiss Natasha and you did a shitty job of it? What's wrong with you? Did you not listen to me at all ever?"

 

"Hey now, I wouldn't say it was great but it wasn't… shitty, was it, Natasha?" Steve looked to her for backup. She did not deliver as expected.

 

"Considering the situation…"

 

Bucky groaned.

 

"Woah, you said I needed practice, you failed to mention I botched it entirely." The blush was now so fierce that Steve could hear it. "That's maybe something you should inform a person of."

 

"But you acted so defensively when I even asked you about it, I didn't want to hurt your feelings any more than I already had."

 

Steve snorted. "'Cause it's so much better hearing it now, in front of witnesses."

 

"If it makes you feel any better, Steve, the first girl I kissed wrote a letter to the whole school rating it on a scale of one to ten and providing extensive reasoning to support her rating. She gave me a three. I didn't get even a second look again in middle school."

 

"Good story, Sam, but that was, like you said, school-age troubles. Steve is a fucking grown man and he _doesn't listen_ , so now he's ridiculous."

 

"Well, that girl got an A on her essay and I got screwed over for three years. That's pretty damn ridiculous."

 

Steve couldn't stand it anymore, the look of frustration on Buck's face. He pretended to sketch to avoid looking back at him. "This is just great. Throw me under the bus so you don't have to talk about your situation with Barton. Good team-playing, Natasha," came the mutter that no one heard, because that would be rude, throwing Natasha under her own bus for revenge.

 

"I wouldn't say he's ridiculous, just… an oddity."

 

"Not better, Natasha."

 

"Yeah, not better, but enough with the evasive descriptors. What was really wrong with it? What made you ask if he was out of practice?" Bucky hadn't been this singularly focused since he had been trying to drive a knife through Steve's ribcage. This didn't feel much different.

 

"What I actually asked was if that was his first kiss since 1945," she responded with a grin in Steve's direction. But, laying aside her tools and nearly completed explosive, Natasha turned more contemplative. "What was the giveaway? Or rather what were the giveaways?" Steve broke the tip of his pencil. "Well, first off, he was very stiff, as though when I touched him his body froze."

 

"Oh, come on, Steve."

 

"Give 'em a break, y'all. I mean, if Nat were kissing me with just a few seconds of warning I'd freeze up too. Probably. Maybe."

 

"You have to put your whole body into it, Steve. How many times did I tell you that?"

 

Steve just shook his head. Oh, he'd heard it enough. Employing it was a different story.

 

"Okay, Natasha, what else?"

 

"It all centered around that sort of stiff response. You didn't exactly… do much with, well, with anything. I didn't need your tongue in my mouth, but a little movement of your lips would have helped."

 

"You just stood there, pressing your lips against her?" The dullness of Bucky's voice did not bode well. It was worse than the exasperated shouting. It meant Steve was beyond scolding. He was going to get-- "That's it, you're getting a demonstration. He's a good listener, he is. He's just so damned stubborn, if you don't show him, in front of his face, in the flesh, sometimes it just doesn't get through his skull all the way to give it credence. Steve."

 

Bucky snapped his left hand beside Steve's face, a strange metallic noise. "Pay attention this time. Since you didn't before." Looking up, Steve found Buck standing, determination in the set of his jaw. "You kiss a woman -- and it shouldn't matter the circumstances -- you kiss a woman to make _her_ feel good, so you can't just be a bump on a log. May I?" He turned to Natasha and held out his hand.

 

"Sure," she replied off hand, standing as well and squaring her shoulders to Bucky like they were about to spar or give a combat demonstration.

 

"This should be good," Sam muttered across the table, leaning back with his hands behind his head.

 

"Right. So, you don't wanna make her feel uncomfortable, but you gotta move in close enough for the kiss. The secret is getting near her without threatening her personal space aggressively. I like moving so that one of my feet lines up between hers. Maybe if things move on right, I'll let my knee brush against the inside of her leg. Like this."

 

Natasha waited until Bucky was standing as described and then nodded. "Yeah, and I'll say I like this. Forward without being predatory. Also, that knee thing is good. I endorse that."

 

"And once you're close, when you're both looking for the kiss, don't rush it if you can help it. Certainly don't rush it and forget to multitask. It's about more than just your mouths. Use both hands, and not just to hold her face to yours. Engage the whole body. I like to start lightly, build up to it. I'll use my left hand to run up her arm, over a collarbone, to brush hair off of her shoulder. Just start touching her, again if you have the time and you're not trying to fool a tac team in under forty-five seconds." Bucky did as described, turning around to make sure Steve was paying attention. "Then that one I'll move on to provide support. Keeping her close by her lower back, her ass, or between the shoulder blades. All depends on how well I know her." He flashed Natasha an old grin and set his hand between her shoulder blades.

 

"For first kisses, Steve, I'd stay away from ass groping, just… my opinion."

 

"There ya go. Now… now she's close, she's probably touching you as well. Hands on your arms, your chest, 'round your neck. That's good but stay focused. Bring in the right arm--"

 

"You don't have to detail it move by move," Steve mumbled.

 

"Oh, I don't? Then why didn't you do it right before this, huh?"

 

He couldn't mask his sigh in time, but Bucky moved right on without further scolding.

 

"Anyway, use your other hand up top to lead up to the kiss. I like to brush the hair out of her face, tuck it behind an ear. Ears are really sensitive and getting the hair out of her eyes makes it clear that you're looking at _her_ , that she's the main event behind those eyes."

 

"And be sure to make eye contact, Steve."

 

"Eye contact, got it," he confirmed when they both stared at him. "Not that that's _my_ problem. As I recall, I've been looking everybody in the eye for years now. Especially once I was eye level with them."

 

"I'm giving the lesson and I want none of your lip now, pal. Besides, I've been fine with that for a while. And I had a good excuse when I wasn't. Back to your shortcomings. You're staring into each other's eyes, all gooey like, you're holding her close enough to feel her heartbeat. It's intimate, a little breathy pro'bly. That right hand, it's not through yet."

 

Bucky had pulled Natasha back into position and finally turned away from Steve. Now he lowered his voice some and Steve and Sam had to lean in.

 

"Then, maybe brush a thumb over her lip, real soft. Maybe run it down her jaw line and tilt her chin your way. But don't pull her. Let her move when she's comfortable." He did just that and paused, Natasha leaning towards him right on time. "Then, meet her."

 

He leaned the rest of the way and Steve could feel the room hold its breath. Hell, even he was waiting for the kiss now. But then Bucky paused, right off of Natasha's lips, and turned just a bit to make sure his audience was rapt. "Now's when you make it count, all of it. Slip your hand back across her jaw, over her cheek, anywhere, just wrap it in her hair. Keep things stimulated, include the other hand. Hold her closer, slip it lower, or for better leverage, to feel more of her."

 

Natasha had a wicked smirk on her face as Bucky spoke. It grew sharper when he copped a feel and managed to slip his left hand under her shirt, over her waist, and up her back.  

 

"But right before that first moment when you kiss her, remind her it's your mouth that's really about to steal the show. Hold her eye and then do something to let her know you're excited about kissing her. I used to grin."

 

And grin he did. Suddenly, Steve was back at an apple-picking, kicking cores across the lawn as Buck showed Mary Beth D'Angelo that grin. It was his move, that grin. Steve used to hear the girls whispering about it later, about it and the other stuff that followed. Then, Bucky was doing just that, the other stuff, and Steve was supposed to be learning from it. Ludicrous. If he'd not learnt what to do from the first five dozen times he glimpsed Bucky macking on girls, how would this be any better? He watched all the same. Mostly so it wouldn't happen again when Buck found out he'd not paid attention. And to their credit, it was one hell of an impressive kiss. He couldn't _help_ but watch.

 

Sam, too. By the time they parted, his jaw had dropped a little. "Yeah. That. _That_ was a good kiss. That looked real." He turned to Steve and pointed, as if Steve didn't know what he was referring to. "Did you see that?"

 

"How could I not?"

 

Natasha stood away, straightening herself out but completely composed, like she'd just done some gun-training demonstration. "Okay. Did you notice how it started out slow? That's usually a good call. It's few and far between kisses that are actually clothes-ripping lustful ones. Slow is good for buildup, for getting to know one another. You learn how your lips feel and work together and fit best against one another, how much you need to tilt your head to one side or another. You avoid awkward teeth-clacking and nose-smashing. It's soft and breathless and almost delicate. Then, when you both sink into it, when your bodies press together and you're melting into the contact, then you can get a little more tactile. Introduce the tongue, but not too much. Use a little teeth for teasing and a change of textures. No biting, at first. It's not for everyone. And when you can't breathe, or they start to pull away, gently end it. Run your hand over her ear, seal it with another chaste tap of the lips, something so it's not just a quick dislodging of mouths. And make eye contact again when you're finished."

 

Natasha walked to the cabinets and got herself some water, sitting down as she finished up and diving right back into her explosive before she'd finished talking. Bucky nodded along the whole time, watching Steve with an eye to his attention.

 

"And, don't just freeze, Steve. When the mouths start working, make sure the rest hasn't gone corpse stiff. 'Kay?"

 

Steve fought the urge to roll his eyes, instead pushing the heels of his hands into them. This had been an extremely uncomfortable fifteen minutes, and unfortunately, not one he would likely forget. Buck seemed to take his lack of response as a failure to listen.

 

"Did ya get that? Were you not paying attention again?" He was advancing at an alarming pace when Steve looked up.

 

"No, I was!"

 

"Well, did you get all that? Huh? Natasha, you should show him."

 

As suggested, Natasha set aside her tools and was coming his way. In an absurd and over-reactional response, Steve held out his hands to keep her at bay. "No, I'm fine. Got it, Buck, Nat."

 

"If you weren't, I'll kiss you to show you. You know that."

 

"Yeah, I know. I got it for now, Buck. Maybe later." That made everyone laugh, and blessedly move on from the subject. There was no way Steve needed it brought up again, though. Not with the image of his two closest friends, lips locked, seared into his memory. It was unlikely he'd ever forget that.

 

"Hey, have y'all noticed the toilets having less water?"

 

"Yeah, it's the cold, Sam. Pipes constrict."

 

"Oh, thank god. I was worried I was going to have to do some plumbing work on a super soldier dump or something."

 

But his friends already seemed to have. Amazing how lightly they could handle subjects like these now, flitting between kissing and plumbing.

 

"That's unnecessarily descriptive."

 

"Yes, please save us the bilge of your pulpy imagination."

 

"Pssh. Y'all don't even know. This _is_ filtered. Like, through a sieve."

 

But then, suddenly and just as easily, Steve has moved on. As though their mood was contagious. "I shudder to think what ends up caught in that sieve, Sam."

 

"You should, sentinel of liberty, uprightness and all that crap that you are. It would pollute you permanently." Sam grinned. "I'll fill you in sometime soon. Buck can help. He's a fountain of… what did you call it, Nat? Sewage? No…"

 

"Bilge. Get your head out of the plumbing."

 

"Right, fountain of bilge."

 

"Aw, stop it, Sam. I'm so flattered. Am I _blushing_?" Bucky had his full sarcastic toolbox back at his disposal, facial expressions and all now. He pulled just such a one, after bending over to recollect Wobbles from her pup-bed. That dog was basically a new appendage of his, not that Steve could blame them. They healed one another. Even whenever he was entrusted with the little fur ball, Steve felt restored by her.

 

Meanwhile, the banter continued, Sam returning.

 

"Well you should be. Little color on your cheeks would go a long way. Really finish off the porcelain doll look you've got going on over there with the big blue eyes and pouty lips. Are you wearing lip gloss, man?"

 

Bucky actually laughed out loud at that. "Fuck off. You're just sore 'cause I'm better looking than you."

 

"Nah, Buck. No. Steve is the one here who might be better looking than me, if that argument's gonna be made, and I'd be okay with that. You would be classified as _prettier_ than me, and that's totally different. And not something I'd be jealous of."

 

"Now, I wouldn't say I'm better looking than anybody. Or that a ranking could even be made between us. That's a very subjective--"

 

"Shut up, Steve."

 

"Yeah, shut up."

 

"Enough self-deprecation."

 

"Really. You're Captain America. You're literally the physical ideal for a whole generation of the nation. Which has persisted, by the way. Like we haven't got enough of the tall, blonde, blue-eyed, muscly, white dude. No offense."

 

"None taken. I'm personally of the opinion that it's all very overblown, this image. And that's not what I was talking about. I meant that saying one or the other _is better_ looking is going to vary per perspective. If anyone was self-deprecating, it was you, Sam. You overlook _your_ great smile, _perfect_ skin and _big, soulful eyes_ with that comparison."

 

"Nah, I said I was good looking," Sam replied, wagging a finger at Bucky's smirk and Steve's falsely innocent grin,"-- I know that, we all know that. It's obvious."

 

"Yes, yes it is. You're an Adonis, Sam Wilson."

 

"So ruggedly handsome."

 

"Right? I'm glad we all agree on that -- But that you, Steve, were better looking. I can admit that objectively because, secure as I am in my exceptional good looks, you have a _perfection_ serum in your blood. You're all symmetrical and shit, and aesthetically, no matter what the features, that's more pleasing to the eye." He nodded and looked around for a challenge.

 

"Gah, Steve!" Bucky clasped his hands together and slid his chair until he was mashed against Steve's shoulder. "You're so _handsome_ , and _symmetrical_. You're _perfect_ and I wish I were _you_ \--"

"Ow!" Sam's punch deflected hard and left him hopping around, shaking out his hand.

 

"Moron. That was my left shoulder. I'd have thought you'd have figured that out by now. That it hurts when you punch it. Guess it's really brains _or_ beauty."

 

"Ha ha," Sam forced out a laugh, still wincing from his probably bone-bruised hand. "Then you must be dumber than a doornail."

 

Natasha sighed beside them but didn't look up from her project or make an effort put a damper on the banter. She only mumbled something in Russian that Bucky was too busy talking over to catch. "почемубывамнепростотянутьегозаволосыиполучитьфлиртнадс?"

 

"Am I blushing again?"

 

"You are very pretty, Buck. All the girls used to say so. Just apparently not as pretty as me now."

 

"It's just the hair."

 

"And the doe eyes and the lips and that jawline and--"

 

"OKAY BOYS," Natasha raised her voice, but only so that they would hear her over their raucousness. "That is enough quibbling on that subject. You're all pretty in your own right. Now, let's move on. If I have to hear one more insincere compliment…"

 

"Aw, Tasha, are you just jealous you're not the prettiest in the room?"

 

"Not one bit. Win-win for me, I've got 24/7 eye candy and then, by your estimation, I'm always the _smartest_ in the room." She tucked her hair back behind her ears and held up her homemade explosive detonator for inspection. "I just never learned to tune out that insecure, backhanded blather in the dance room and I'm still not tolerant of it now. Even if you were joking, it needs to stop before I taser you and dress you up like the beauty pageant contestants you seem to think you are."

 

"Just as long as you don't put me in red. It does nothing for my coloring."

 

That broke her. Natasha laughed quietly and cuffed Bucky across the jaw. "No, you're right. No red for you ever again. Blues and greens and browns. But Sam, Sam would look lovely in a deep cut, red evening gown."

 

"Damn straight."

 

"And Steve… perhaps a blue as well… but a trumpet silhouette to compensate for your tiny ass." She gave him an extra warm grin, kissing the top of his head as she left the table. "Well, I'm done with that detonator and there's still a few hours before sunset. What about an extra trip to the store? It's Halloween tomorrow night and we should have some candy to give out to the kids, and I've never carved a pumpkin. Could be… fun."

 

* * *

 

Natasha could not have misspoken more. Carving pumpkins was _not_ her idea of fun. Sam and Steve and Bucky, however, all seemed to enjoy it, and the enormous mess that came with it. But it was great, it was fine. She was slowly collecting that mess, the gooey guts of each pumpkin, the seeds and string, for her own purposes. It would be worth it.

 

Completely blind to Nat's disgruntlement at their enormous, goopy disaster zone, Sam was a jack-o-lantern carving maniac. He was hacking. He was scooping. He was making horribly misshapen, hideously carved faces in his three pumpkins. And he was having a grand ole time of it. This was just like being a kid at his Mams' again. It didn't matter that he was horrible at it, Sam got to take out all his energy and pent up frustration eviscerating these gourds. He was so enjoying himself that it had escaped him that it was past dinnertime.

 

"Hey, does anyone else have like a serious food-boner for some pumpkin soup?"

 

"Elch, not even a little bit, Sam. Really?" Nat scooped up another handful of pumpkin guts and slopped them into a grocery bag. "How do you get 'appetizing dinner idea' from this. It's like a winter vegetable massacre in here."

 

"Doesn't bother me, I guess. I see cut up food, I think meal options."

 

"You have iron sensibilities, then, pal. This is giving me war flashbacks." Buck dropped the insides of his first and only pumpkin into Nat's collection bag. He had a half-gagging frown on his face. "And then you want to put faces in 'em… just seems fucked up. God, and they're almost warm, uh." He shook out his hand, sending slime and threads everywhere. The full-body shiver that followed made Steve and Sam both laugh.

 

"They're just vegetables, Buck." Steve set aside his knife and handed Buck a spoon. "Use that instead. But, even so, I don't know about eating them after all this. They're not exactly appetizing."

 

Bucky had taken the spoon and was methodically hollowing out his pumpkin, ending the shivering, but not the disgusted frown. "What would you eat of these things, anyways?"

 

"The flesh--"

 

"Please don't call it that."

 

"The meat of it and the seeds-- OH! Oh! Imma roast up the seeds!" Sam abandoned the gutting and rushed over to Nat's bag o' guts. She relinquished them with a tired sigh and sat down on Buck's other side.

 

"Please _, please_ , don't get that crap everywhere again, Sam."

 

"I won't. Just… fishing out the seeds." He'd alreadyrescued about a dozen of them from her trash bag.

 

"I'm… I'm not good at this." Buck had stabbed the pumpkin but had given up with the actual carving. "And if we're putting these outside where kids can see 'em… yeah, I don't think my pumpkin is a good idea. It's like a nightmare. Deformed… angry nightmare. … Appropriate."

 

"James, stop it." Nat had taken his pumpkin and was adding some fine adjustments to what carving he'd done. "It's not scarring or anything. And from what I can tell, people get really into their creepy pumpkins. Here, keep at it."

 

"Yeah… oh, you're being too hard on yourself, Buck. That's not so bad."

 

"Don't condescend to me, Steven Rogers. _Not so bad_ , my ass. Compared to yours it's gonna look like a pile of--Jesus fuck!"

 

"Bucky!"

 

"Well, goddamn, Steve. Yours makes mine look like it was done by a blind five year old. What in the fuckin' hell? How'd you make it look so real? You can't shade a pumpkin carving."

 

"Well, actually you can. It's all in the way you--"

 

"Oh, fuck off. I swear to God." Buck had pumpkin guts in his hair now, was obviously trying to figure out how it had gotten there. "Fuckin' pumpkin artist over here. Carving shadows and shit-- why is there slimy shit in my hair?!?!" At least he was laughing, half exasperated, but laughing when Sam looked up. "Can't carve it, but I can wear it. Where is it coming from? I'm just making it worse."

 

He threw his hands up, rolled his eyes as Nat and Steve both stood to pick it out of his hair. Sam joined, seeing a seed for harvesting.

 

"Oh, you're not roasting that one. It was in my _hair_."

 

"Yeah, well it's not anymore."

 

"Gross, Sam."

 

"I'll rinse it." Sam tossed it in his bowl, stopping to admire Steve's admittedly incredible carving. "Damn, man, that is impressive. That's like friggin'

art."

"Wow, Steve. Very meta. Pumpkins carved onto a pumpkin." Nat plucked the last of the innards from Buck's hair and leaned down to inspect further. "And some of them are carved. Funny."

 

"It's goddamn majestic. I say we put his outside only since mine and Sam's look like they've already been smashed."

 

"Hey now. Mine is a Dada vegetable. It's meant to be deconstructionalist."

 

"The fuck ever. You just went psycho on 'em. Bullshit modern art can't save you from being a shitty pumpkin carver."

 

Steve tutted. "Dadaism is a legitimate and important modern art movement, Bucky."

 

"You can think whatever you want, Steve, but I'll never believe a urinal turned on its side on a pedestal and called a fountain is art. That's just me, though. I'm too simple for that kind of big statement high art." Running a hand through his hair, Buck got stuck. "Gah, I know you said it's out, but I can still feel it. It's crusty." He walked to the kitchen sink and stuck his head under the faucet. "And you thought this was going to be a good idea why, Tasha?"

 

"Honestly? I don't remember at this point." She was trying to scrape pieces off the wall. "You three are hardly better than children. And there's a reason I'm not around children. Did you use a _chainsaw_ , Wilson?"

 

"Heh, heh. Oops?" He stood to help clean off the goop she couldn't reach. "It'll be worth it when you taste these pumpkin seeds. Promise."

 

"And just what are we going to eat with those pumpkin seeds? You know, for dinner?"

 

"Pssh, I don't know. You whiny, weak-stomached wusses can figure that out yourselves. I'm eating pumpkin everything."

 

And sure enough, Sam did have pumpkin everything for dinner that evening. Though, Steve and Bucky didn't stick around to see how that turned out, leaving part the way through his and Natasha's argument for their dusk run. Well, actually after-dusk run. The sun was setting so much earlier, they were just too late to catch anything but the very end. That didn't bother either of them over much, they didn't need full disguises and they could really open up the throttle where there weren't many street lights.

 

By the time they got back, Sam was finished cooking and eating his pumpkin themed stew meal by himself in the living room. A whole ton of seeds waited, roasted perfectly, on every flat pan they had, on every surface in the common room. Trying them, Steve and Buck both had to admit they were exceptional.

 

"But not a meal," Natasha mumbled, eating some from her own personal cookie sheet.

 

"You could eat my soup or you could cook your own damn food!"

 

She gave Steve a withered look and shoved another handful of seeds into her mouth.

 

"Steaks're in the fridge," Bucky said around his own seed-consumption. "We can grill 'em with that thing you bought. Potatoes too."

 

Natasha lit up. "That's a great idea, Bucky." She had decided to buy a portable grilling pit a week or so before at the grocery store's end of summer sale. It had seemed impractical with the weather going downhill, but she'd promised they'd find a use for it, and now they had. "We can use it on the roof."

 

"You know how to get onto the roof?"

 

"I know how to _climb_ onto the roof."

 

"Sounds good to me." Bucky grabbed a fistful of seeds, packed them away and then stomped towards the basement's stairs where Natasha had stored the pit. He returned quickly with the box and Natasha's tool box and headed towards the front window. "Grab the food, Steve."

 

"Uh… okay. This should be interesting. Nat, you've got repelling cable or something--" She held up a coil of roped before he stopped speaking, handing Wobbles to Sam, who was unusually quiet. Probably pouting about being left out for the nighttime barbeque.

 

Scaling the side of their apartment building in the early night carrying the stuff for a grill out was interesting. What was even more interesting was what they found on the roof when they got onto it.

 

"What the fuck is that?"

 

"It looks to be a fully constructed grill identical to the one we have."

 

"No fucking shit. I meant, _what the fuck is that_?" Bucky knelt beside the grill and inspected it in the beam of Natasha's flashlight.

 

"A source of consternation for us all."

 

"How did that get up here? I mean, it's exactly the one we bought…" He opened the box he'd just spent eight minutes hauling up a rope, growling as he looked inside. "What the fuck is all this?" He dumped the box's contents, revealing a cascade of shaving cream bottles. "You've got to be kiddin' me."

 

"Fuck, Clint…" Natasha cursed a few more times under her breath and swept the roof with her light. It revealed a bunch of knickknacks and garbage, but also a canvas tent, broken down, and a sleeping bag.

 

"You know, I _knew_ I smelled pork chops the other day. You said I was imagining things, but clearly I wasn't." Bucky waved a bone at them and then threw it off the roof. "Yep, he was grilling pork chops up here. Didn't clean the grate or anything."

 

"Well, at least he saved us the time of putting this thing together," Steve offered, laying out their food stuffs on the overturned box.

 

" _Yeah_. Hooray for that. I'm _so_ glad I hauled up this box of shaving cream cans. Oh, and this huge ass toolbox. So helpful, such a good use of my time."

 

"Stop griping and start the fire, James." Natasha was typing wildly on her phone, brow furrowed. Either she was worried about Clint, ready to tear his head off, or did not do well with low blood sugar.

 

"Yes, ma'am." Buck sidled over to where Steve was dressing the steaks. "I'd hate to be this Barton guy right now," he whispered and then nearly burnt down the whole building with far too much lighter fluid.

 

"We're firefighters, for fuck's sake, James! Do you not know anything about fire safety? Did you not read the instructions?"

 

"I didn't know it was gonna be so goddamn potent. They should put that on the bottle!"

 

"They do! Right there! Extra strength! What do you think that means?!"

 

"I DON'T KNOW! Maybe that it's extra strong!? Fuck! I woulda known that if I could read the fuckin thing, which I can't if there's no goddamn light!"

 

"That's what the FLASHLIGHT'S for!"

 

Steve stomped out the last stray flame and rounded on them, fed up with their shouting match. "That's enough, both of you! Screaming at each other on a roof for the whole neighborhood to hear. _You're both supposed to be spy-assassins. Act like it, be less conspicuous._ " He was just audibly whispering but he knew they heard him loud and clear. "The fire's out. No harm, no foul. Now, let's cook some food."

 

" _EVERYTHING ALRIGHT UP THERE?_ " Sam's voice drifted up to them from the window a story below." _I HEARD SHOUTING._ "

 

"We're fine. Just a small accident." Natasha called back down and started readying the pit for a new fire.

 

" _THAT'S WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU PISS OF THE COOK!_ "

 

She rolled her eyes and lit the charcoal, this time not searing off arm hair like Buck had done. "See? No column of flame that time."  

"I put it out, didn't I?" Buck snapped back.

 

"At the cost of yet another shirt, yes. And there's a premium on your clothes now, James, because you go through them so fast."

 

Bucky plucked off the scorched remains of his left sleeve and tossed them to the floor. "It's not like I meant to."

 

"No, you never do, but it doesn't change the fact that you now have only six shirts that you can wear in public whereas the rest of us have more than double that."

 

"Well, if I didn't have to hide my fuckin' arm all the time, it wouldn't be such a big goddamn deal."

 

"Unless you have another idea for how to keep your identity concealed, that's just what you have to do." Natasha set the steaks over the flames and them pointed her flashlight at Bucky's face, tilting down his chin to check his face. "Your eyebrows are mostly fine. The left one took a bit of searing, but we should be able to cover that."

 

"I'm fine." He pulled away and slouched into the shadows, staying there until he got bored of pouting alone. When he reappeared, the potatoes in their foil were almost done and Steve was trying to check them without ripping their foil container. "The left one really that bad?"

 

"Nah, Buck. Nat can color it in just fine."

 

" _Great_." He turned to her next, scuffing the toe of his shoe on the ground. "Sorry for yelling."

 

Natasha laughed. "Me too, Bucky. My nerves were fried. Come here, you've got soot on your face still."

 

He complied, standing like he used to when one of their mothers had scolded him: head ducked, shoulders slumped, ornery frown on his face. Steve snorted to himself and turned away, checking on the food again. The potatoes were done. And woah, hot! He carried the foil bag to their makeshift table and set them down quickly so the night air could cool his hands. Of course, they weren't burnt, but he'd still felt it for a moment.

 

"Did you just lick your finger and wipe your spit all over my face?"

 

"Yes, it got the soot off." Natasha was smirking when Steve turned around. "You didn't mind it earlier when it was in your _mouth_."

 

Bucky stepped away quickly enough to almost topple over. " _That_ was different. _That_ was purely tr--training, for a demonstration. For Steve. It was for Steve."

 

"Yeah. And you still didn't mind it."

 

Buck's bravado had recovered by then. He smirked right back at her and shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah, well. I've done plenty of things for Steve, that I wouldn't normally do, without a blink."

 

"Mmm, you really _took one for the team_ then, huh?"

 

"Yep. It was a selfless act."

 

"A selfless act?"

"Mm-hmm."

 

"A sacrifice on your part?"

 

Steve grimaced. This felt like a trap. But Buck nodded his way right into it.

 

"Mm-hmm. Sure was. Hey, I'd do it for you to. You know, for other things. Take a bullet, take down a problem… those sorta things."

 

Natasha was smiling in that very Black Widow sort of way she had. Steve thought about stopping Bucky from digging his grave deeper, but he'd embarrassed him pretty badly earlier. He could take care of himself with this.

 

"Or, this Barton. If he's, you know, trouble and you don't wanna get your hands dirty. I'm good for that too. No scruples for friends." Steve grimaced more as Bucky winked. It was just so self-satisfied. The last time he'd read a situation this wrong he'd spent a half an hour vomiting into a trash can after Renee Daniels kneed him in his goods. That Renee had had sharp knees and, interestingly, red hair.

 

But then, after all that, Natasha went easy on him. "That's generous of you, Barnes, but unnecessary. How 'bout you start small and take another one for the team by climbing back downstairs and bringing up the beer and utensils. I forgot we needed those. Maybe take the toolbox down with you to save a trip? Oh, and bring the pumpkin innards when you come back up, would you? I need them up here."

 

Bucky seemed to sense the forced tone of her request and dropped the smirk. He nodded and took off, giving Steve a hard, 'you coulda warned me' look before he hopped over the edge.

 

"You could have been a whole lot less gentle with him, Nat. He was being a bit of a jerk."

 

"Oh, I know. It'll come around in time." She smiled, not the scary kind, at Steve and flipped their steaks.

 

"Okay… and, uh, just out of worried curiosity, you're not going to do anything with that pumpkin mess to him, right?"

 

"To Bucky? Oh, no. That's for Barton. He's fucked with us one time too many. It's going in his sleeping bag." She chuckled to herself a little. "What was he thinking leaving it here on the roof? That'll keep him from pulling the late night pranks again, stepping into a cold gooey slime net in his sleeping bag. And if he can't sleep here, he can't prank here. The reign of terror will end."

 

"If you say so…" Steve wasn't so sure of that, that answering Clint's pranks would not just spur him on, but he let it go. She wasn't in a mood for debating the finer points of logic, though in the end she'd probably still win.

 

* * *

 

After the steaks, which were incredibly over done but still better than pumpkin mash, and the super-rich plate-mashed potatoes, sleep was a quick but inconstant visitor for Steve. He had passed out full and content almost immediately upon turning the lights out, but after the quick two hours of dead-sleep, he had trouble staying asleep. He tossed and turned, his mind exhausted but his body suddenly awake and ready to expend some calories. When it became ridiculous, he got up and grabbed a book to read at the window by the soft light of the night. He nodded several times a few pages into a chapter and, though not able to go to sleep, decided he couldn't stay focused enough to read, so he returned to his bed.

 

Bucky didn't sound to be having the same trouble as Steve with sleep, but after the months of horrible nightmares he hardly had any problem staying in a _dreamless_ sleep. That wasn't always the case, but night's like tonight were coming more and more frequently. That was good for the whole household. Listening to Bucky sleep helped Steve still his mind and body, and soon he was breathing just as slowly and deeply as his friend across the room.

 

He didn't know how long ago it could have been since he fell back asleep again, but at some point after that, Bucky was no longer lightly snoring. He was standing over Steve, shaking his shoulder and glaring like he had some killing to do. Sitting up made his head spin, but Steve clambered out of bed in silence and padded behind Buck as he stalked towards the sound that seemed to have woken him. It was some rustling and crunching out in the front of the apartment. Bucky eased open their door and signaled for Steve to cover right. He forged right ahead, only his arm and the knife in his hand visible, catching the moonlight. Steve had nothing, his shield was still strapped safe beneath his bed, but chances were he wouldn't be needed after Bucky found the home invader, and if he was it would only be to clean up the mess.

 

Then, Steve saw the culprit and all but laughed out loud. He really wasn't needed, except perhaps to prevent some Avenger slaughter. Clint Barton was seated out front in just his boxers, feet up on the dinner table, reading what looked to be their fire manual by cell phone light. He brought with him the distinct odor of pine forest and pumpkin. He was also busy eating the loudest bag of trail mix ever known to man.

 

Still slightly in shock from the portrait Barton painted there in their living room, Steve neglected to call off Bucky. He was just a foot or so away from slicing open the archer's throat when his victim tossed his head back and held out the bag to him.

 

"Hey guys! Trail mix?"

 

Bucky leapt back, startled by the sound, and being detected.

 

"Barton, what are you doing here?"

 

"Barton?" Bucky frowned. " _This_ is Barton?"

 

"Man, my reputation precedes me, but without fail always sets me up for being a disappointment. Yeah, kid, I'm Clint Barton."

 

"Kid?" Bucky looked to Steve almost as if asking for permission to kill anyways. "I'm basically three times your age."

 

Clint shrugged and tossed back another handful of trail mix. "Eh, technicality," he responded through the crunching. "Heya, Cap, how's it going? You look good. I like your sidekick. He's way more badass than the old comics would lead you to think. The metal arm is so _metal._ You sure you don't want any trail mix?"

 

"Barton, what are you doing here?"

 

"Uh, long story. Lotta shit got fucked up. Then I did some stupid shit. Then I got a taste of my own medicine.Pumpkin guts. Everywhere. Had to turn myself in. Tasha said I could have the couch if I behaved. Thought that included the whole front… area. Is this your friend's trail mix? Is that why he's staring daggers at me?" He kicked his feet to the ground with a loud thump and handed the bag around to Buck. "Here ya go, kid."

 

"It's communal trail mix, and I have a name, pal."

 

"Yeah, I know. James Buchanan Barnes. Quite the mouthful though. I'll just call you kid if you don't--"  

"Who's there?" Just then Sam came busting out of his room, gun drawn and only wearing one sock. "I am armed, I will fire."

 

"Sam, Sam. It's fine." Steve stepped into the light and tossed a blanket his way. "Clint's finally appeared. Buck and I were just welcoming him."

 

"Hey man!" Clint munched and waved behind them. "Nice sock."

 

Sam wrapped himself into a blanket burrito and flipped on a light switch. "This is Hawkeye?"

 

"One of 'em."

 

"Nice," Sam marched over to shake his hand. "You are a pranking genius, dude."

 

"Oh, thanks. It's a fickle mistress though."

 

"Nat caught you."

 

"Yup."

 

"Pumpkin guts in your sleeping bag is just wrong."

 

"Meh, I earned it." He leaned closer. "Plus it got me what I wanted, an introduction round here in the super soldier rehab camp."

 

"Go the fuck to sleep, Clint!" Natasha was awake. She did not sound pleased. "I said you could come inside to sleep, that was all."

 

"I'm in trouble," he whispered. "But that's not all that new, so…" he shrugged a shoulder and finished off the trail mix. "Nice meeting you, Sam, Buchanan. I'm gonna call you Buchanan."

 

Bucky shook his hand with a look of bemusement on his face. He was past frustrated and confused and onto cautiously intrigued. "Alright. Then, I'll call you Clinton."

 

"And then we'll both be presidents! Ha. Though, you were brain fucked for that part, but you should read up on that if you haven't already. Bill Clinton. Right, Cap, good to see ya." He dusted off his hands and then flopped onto the couch, waving as they all retreated to their rooms. "Sleep tight!"

 

"That's the guy Natasha relies on so much?" Buck asked after they shut their door. "Really? Him?"

 

"He's more impressive than he seems, trust me. You should see him with a bow, he's a perfect shot."

 

Bucky scoffed. "Perfect shot, my ass. I bet I could out shoot him."

 

Steve chuckled weakly, "maybe we'll see sometime soon. He's good with guns too. An expert marksman." He listened as Bucky scoffed again and muttered something in Russian. It was good to see Bucky's competitiveness, as possibly homicidal as it could prove. It meant he had some pride back, some self-confidence.

 

It was easy to fall back asleep after that.

 

* * *

 

 

"Is that just what he does?"

 

Natasha counted through the rest of the breaths for her pose and, only when she'd held it long enough, then turned around to look at Sam. "Is what just what who does?" She knew precisely what and whom he meant, but she wasn't in a mood for disclosing information so easily.

 

"Clint. Just shows up for a night and disappears before we get up."

 

"It was what he was doing when he was fucking around with the shave cream and shit. Now shut up. I'm trying to be calm and flexible at the same time and your big, loud mouth doesn't help with that." Bucky had reacted petulantly each time that morning mention had been made of Clint.

 

"Well, excuse the fuck outta me. Damn. Just wondering."

 

"And still talking."

 

In a way, Natasha was grateful to Bucky for his shut down of Sam's question. She didn't feel like talking about Clint just then, not his habits and especially not what his presence the night before meant. It was a sore subject, mostly because she didn't know her own mind on the matter. On the other hand, Bucky's bitterness towards Clint concerned her. Was he just being cautious about a new person? Just picking up on her own mood? Or, possibly the worst, was he jealous?

 

His knee-jerk reaction to her tease about their kissing made her cautious, made her go easy on him with the 'sacrifice' conversation and requital. It also made her acutely oversensitive to anything that might indicate other than platonic affection towards her. That was why she was worried about jealousy then, but she was most likely over analyzing. All the same, dealing with a romantically frustrated and jealous Bucky Barnes could be a serious headache. She was going to continue keeping an eye out.

 

Silence on the matter thankfully persisted through duty hours and even past lunch. It wasn't until the midafternoon work out in the basement that Clint was brought up again. To Natasha's discomfort it was Steve who violated the Hawkeye embargo and in a way that she actually had to respond to and address.

 

"Did Barton have any news for us, Natasha? From New York?"

 

"A little. Nothing serious," she lied brilliantly. Actually, Clint had had a great deal of information to share with her and on several levels of seriousness, much of which he'd communicated before she kicked him out of her room. None of it, though, would be timely to share with this group just then. Nonetheless, it was the reason she was training that day.  

"Did he leave the targets?"

 

Natasha flipped off the dummy she'd been taking down in various ways and looked over at the white and blue gun range targets. "He did. Even after I told him this basement wasn't sound proofed."

 

"Should I read into that, Natasha, and the fact that you're training?" Steve knew the answer to that question already. She could see it on his face. Yet he still had the courtesy to ask.

 

"No. Not for now. I'm just feeling… restless."

 

Bucky had been sourly silent up until then, but broke that to reiterate Steve's question more directly. "Why did he leave the targets, Natasha?"

 

"He thought it would be a good idea for those of us who use firearms to get some practice in. So we wouldn't become complacent or our skills… rusty."

 

Before Natasha could soften that explanation Bucky put Steve on his ass with an over hand right. Sneering, he then stalked from the gym.

 

"I doubt he meant it to be, but that was a very inflammatory word to use, rusty." Steve stood, rubbing his chest.

 

Natasha sighed. "I honestly couldn't say Barton's intentions with that. But you're right. It set Bucky off." She paused and repositioned the combo post. "Steve? Would you say that… he's jealous?"

 

"Mmm, that's tricky, Nat." He finished taking Wobbles off of Sam's hands and then sat down on the bench in front of her. "It's possible, but it's more likely that it's his competitiveness. He, uh, reacted poorly to my mentioning of Barton's prestige in marksmanship last night."

 

"Is he coming back?" Sam asked from the treadmill. "Barton? 'Cause I think he'd be good to have around just for a bit for Bucky to get used to that sort of thing. Also, I'd love to see that competition go down."

 

"I really don't know. And let's not bring it up again. Okay? There's no reason to make Bucky more short tempered than usual with that." It was a little pitiful, using Bucky as a scapegoat excuse so she wouldn't have to talk more about Barton, but it worked out.

 

"Agreed," Steve said, standing and heading for the stairs. "I shouldn't have even brought it up. Let's forget it and have a good time handing out treats tonight."

 

* * *

 

Steve had done a pretty good job in the past few years catching up on things that had changed while he was frozen. Halloween wasn't exactly among those, but Sam couldn't tell that until just around trick or treating hour started. Turned out, he understood it in theory but not in practice.

 

"So, what kind of tricks are we expecting?" He was straightening his holomask in the reflection of the front window. His voice sounded almost tense. "Should I brief Buck when he gets out of the shower so he doesn't… do anything rash?"

 

"No, no, no, man. The tricks aren't a real threat. Kids just want candy."

 

"Then… why is it called trick or treating?"

 

Sam fought not to laugh at the sincere confusion on Steve's face. "I dunno. You really don't know anything about this?"

 

He shook his head. "No, it wasn't common practice when we were growing up, sugar was expensive… and then later there was rationing and, well, Brooklyn was not really a place where you let kids walk the streets alone at night. I understand that it's a Halloween thing, with costumes and stuff, but… I dunno what I was expecting from kids. Hand buzzers? Squirt guns in flowers? Tricks."

 

"Naw, they say 'trick or treat,' you give 'em candy and they go away. You'll sometimes see mischief night or crap like that from older kids when they go out and commit minor vandalism, but that's the extent of the 'tricks.'" Sam filled a second bucket up with assorted candy and handed that to Steve. "Okay, you and me on first duty. Nat and Buck can take over when we run out."

 

The two of them took their buckets and their chairs and hauled them down the stairs to sit out front and greet the kids. Sam liked this part, seeing all the kids in their costumes. He liked pretending they were who they were dressed up as and having a conversation with them. He was good with kids. And so was Steve. God, did the kids respond well to him.

 

"Let's see those muscles? Gosh! You'll be giving Thor a run for his money soon." He was kneeling in front a little girl in a truly excellent Thor costume. Steve reached for her hammer and let it fall to the ground, acting like he couldn't pick it up. "You must be truly worthy to wield Mjolnir." He gave a big grin as she flexed again and then went dashing off with her snickers bar.

 

Sam sent his pirate trio off giggling and fighting over their treats and sat back down. "That was cute, Steve."

 

"Yeah, it was precious."

 

They both nearly rocketed out of their chairs. Natasha slipped open her lawn chair beside Sam and curled up into a tight ball in it, hugging tighter into her fleece. "Here. We brought reinforcements." She handed over the extra candy bags which were already sorely needed. "I just knew you two would be softies, handing out more than one per kid."

 

"And we brought beer." Buck flopped down at Steve's other side and handed over their cleverly concealed evening drinks in thermoses. "Natasha was bored."

 

"No, I was curious. This is my first time actually observing the event."

 

"I was bored," Buck admitted shamelessly. "Okay, so what do we do? I didn't bring Wobbles' leash so I better not have to put her down."

 

"No, she'll be fine. We just sit and wait. Talk with the kids and give them their candy. It's usually over around nine."

 

"Can I eat the candy?"

 

"No, Buck, it's for the kids."

 

"Whoops. Too late," he said through a mouthful. "Oh, processed sugar, it's so good." He'd been in a good mood since the Clint talk had fallen by the wayside. Natasha had been right about leaving the subject be. "God, what is this? It's got everything in it, pretzels, caramel, peanuts, nougat. Oh, what have I been missing out on? Steve, Steve, try this. It's better than… anything I've ever eaten."

 

"No, Bucky, they're for the kids--oof. Oh, that is good. But that's enough. Gimme that. You and your sweet tooth. You know, this guy used to steal all the chocolate bars from the Commandos and eat them. We never knew who it was doing it until…"

 

Buck laughed, smacking Steve as he did. "Oh my God, I'd forgotten about that! Yeah, it was me. I stole 'em every time. S'pose you all figured that out when it stopped after I died. Still, you gotta admit, that was pretty funny."

 

"Funny? It was infuriating. We had one good thing to look forward to in those packages, chocolate. And no one ever got any because of this guy. It's amazing you didn't gain a bunch of weight doing that."

 

"Oh, we didn't know it at the time, but I guess the experimental serums saved me from that. I was surprised by that too." He reached for another candy bar but Steve snatched it away. "Damn. Too slow."

 

"Oh, oh, incoming kid alert. No more cuss words outta you, Buck." Sam sat forward, picking out the costumes. A ballerina, a cowboy, another Thor -- he was really popular this year -- a Spider-man and a bat? No… Nat gasped first, only barely covering her mouth in time.

 

"Crap. Do you… do you think he'll recognize me?" He leaned over and asked Nat quickly.

 

"I don't know. Without the suit and goggles probably not. But how cute, little Falcon."

 

"Didn't even know _Falcon_ made the news," Sam muttered under his breath and then put on his big grin to greet the group. "Hey guys! Happy Halloween from the firehouse!"

 

They each distributed candy, making little conversations or quick comments. Surprisingly, it all went very well. Not even Buck managed to scare his kid away. Actually, he was really good with the little cowboy. Wobbles helped. With that group sent packing they sat back and promptly rounded on Sam.

 

"Did you know that Falcon was a media hit?"

 

"No, God, no. But I'm so excited."

 

"It's exciting, yes, but that means we have to be more careful with your exposure, Sam. Someone might actually recognize your face."

 

Sam was too giddy with joy to worry. "Did'ya hear him? Falcon's his favorite superhero. Awesome."

 

The next wave were slightly older kids in some seriously creative costumes. A 'cereal killer,' which made Steve and Bucky laugh hard enough to spill their candy all over the place, and an 'eye-pod' which freaked them all out until Nat started giggling and pointing to the headphones hanging out of the costume.

 

"Oh, that's clever. Very clever," she said, giving the girl an extra piece of candy. "What?" She asked, as the two of them walked away. "It was clever."

 

"Now who's the softy?"

 

"Whatever," Natasha did grin though. "I award ingenuity. But, oh no, if you want to see softies, just wait until these two catch sight of the next group."

 

Sam followed her line of sight until he saw a big mass of little ones heading their way, parents in tow. It seemed like this group of parents had coordinated to a theme and the theme was… well, them. Well, not _them_ , Steve.

 

Now, Sam had been keeping his nose out of the media shit storm that followed their escapade in DC, but it couldn't be denied that he still saw the highlights. After, for instance, the SHIELD dump on the internet, he saw that Steve as Captain America had come under fire, especially for disappearing when he needed to answer the public. But the people weren't of all the same voice. In fact, like these folks here, it seemed most normal Americans still supported him. The parents all wore the now popular 'America supports her Captain' shirts and their kids echoed that with a collection of Cap suits and forties American gals outfits and a few Howling Commandos, Bucky included.

 

When Steve saw them he smiled, big and warm and proud. But Buck, poor Buck, his mouth just dropped open.

 

"What a slew of patriots," Steve chuckled, standing and kneeling in the middle of their group. "Cap," he saluted all three of them, "ladies, Commandos!" He tried greeting them all and giving them each some candy, but kids that they were, they grew impatient and dispersed to Sam and Nat and Buck as well.

 

"You know who else was on Captain America's first team? Agent Peggy Carter," Nat always drew the little girls, they probably felt safe around her. She handed out candy and grinned. "Ask your parents to look her up. She was a hero too and would be a great costume."

 

"Dude! Your suit is so awesome. Oh, is that the shield? Can I hold it. You must be Dum Dum with that bowler… and you're…"

 

"Jones," Bucky said over his heard of little ones. "Jones was the only American to wear his standard issue hat." He was having a great time. "And I bet you're Jacques with that fine mustache. And one for Bucky Barnes in his sharp, blue coat. You keep an eye out for the rest of them, right?" The little boy nodded vigorously and ran over to what must've been his twin brother in the original Cap suit. Sam actually heard Steve 'aww.'

 

"You two stick together," Steve said, wading through the flock of them, dropping extra candy pieces in bags as he went. "And you all have a fun night!" He smiled and joked around a bit more before sitting back down next to Buck and checking him over. "You alright?"

 

Buck snickered. "I'm a costume."

 

"A pretty good costume, too," Nat interjected. "I wonder how they got a hold of that coat."

 

"Maybe made it?" Steve suggested and then turned back to Buck. "Did you see the one dressed like Jacques with a little mustache? And the fake grenade?"

 

"It was good."

 

"It was."

 

"They didn't recognize you."

 

"Well, I'm not in uniform. And my hair's different. And would they really anyways? I've been dead for over seventy years…" He shook his head, chuckling again. "I'm a costume."

 

By the time they turned in that evening, candy bags cleaned out and beer long past drunk, they'd seen each of themselves in costume form. For Sam and Buck it was only once, but Steve and Nat saw several variations on their superhero uniforms. Those kids got extra candy without fail. They couldn’t help themselves. They saw other Avengers a few times during the night, and each time Steve had something witty to say that, if the kids or their parents were listening closely enough, would have given up the game. He just knew too much. But it all went fine. Great actually.

 

"Oh, that was fun," Steve sighed, settling onto the couch with a fresh beer and a bowl of popcorn. He was all set up for the Halloween themed movies Sam had DVR'd for them.

 

"Yeah. We should have saved some candy though. I would love--oh!" Buck picked up the little package that had just nailed him in the temple and beamed. "Thanks, Tasha."

 

"It's just the one, so enjoy it. Now you're not allowed to whine about it anymore."

 

"You gottit," Buck agreed, syllables muddled by nougat. "Oh, aces. We need to keep some of this stuff around."

 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, candy's awesome. Listen up, geezers, today you're catching up on comedy." Sam stood and fiddled with the remote until his recordings appeared, ready to play.

 

"Comedy? I thought Halloween movies were creature features, or thrillers."

 

"Not exclusively. These have creatures, but they're comedies. You're gonna love 'e-- whoa!" Sam ducked when the first crack sounded at the window, stood with an exasperated sigh when the second hit. "Damn kids are eggin' the building."

 

Nat shared his resigned disappointment. "We're going to have to wash that window in the morning."

 

Steve couldn't sit idly by, however. He marched to the front to inspect the damage. "Oh! There's toilet paper in every tree down the street. They're still throwing eggs. He's aiming at me."

 

"Forget about it, Steve. They're just being little bastards." Buck rolled his eyes and stole some of Steve's popcorn. "Get back over her so we can watch this film."

 

"No! This is disrespectful, and extensive property damage for our neighbors." He was unlatching the window before any of them could stop him. "Excuse me, young men! This is no way to behave. Kids!"

 

Back on the couch, Sam shook his fist in the air and put on his best old man voice, "hey, you meddling kids! Get off my lawn!"

 

Nat snorted into her beer, but Buck had turned around to check on Steve. "Just ignore 'em!"

 

Steve was ignoring someone, it just wasn't the kids. "You realize that pranks and vandalism like this constitute property damage, don't you? This may be all fun and games for you, but it could cost these home owners money to clean up and repair."

 

"Whatever, man!" Came the adolescent response. "Like we give a shit!" The next egg came sailing into the apartment after Steve ducked it. That set him off. "Don't move! You stay right there the both of you. We're having a conversation!"

 

Laughter was their answer and more slurs and 'whatever's. Buck was up by then, going to rein in his friend. He evaded the egg splatter and pulled him out of the window and back into the apartment.

 

"They are not worth this, Steve. Let 'em go."

 

"Fine," Steve huffed, and then promptly leaned back out of the window. "Be grateful for this. We're civic servants, we know police officers! We could get you fined for this!"

 

"Whatever, fags!"

 

Even in the back of the apartment Sam heard the slur and nearly choked on the quick gasp he took. Nat was on her feet too, but there was nothing retaliation wise to be done. Buck was scratching the back of his head and Steve was still just fuming from before.

 

"What?... Cigarettes? I don't get it. They're not British… Is that s'posed to insult me?" He looked around for help. Sam hesitantly gave it.

 

"No, it's slang for homosexual, Buck."

 

They'd never seen his face go that red that quickly. He was nearly full out of the window when they caught him. "That is _not_ an insult, you insubordinate, little trust fund DIPSHITS!" Steve eventually got an arm around his waist and hauled him back inside as the kids fell to pieces laughing outside. But it wasn't over yet.

 

Nat stuck her head out next and immediately silenced them. "Insulting someone for their preferences only shows how insecure you are with your own. Why don't you go consider what it is you really prefer and then maybe how your reactions read to others. Because I can tell you, close-mindedness is not attractive. Good luck getting positive attention that way."

 

No responses followed, no laughter, just the sound of scrambling. Sam understood why when Nat turned back, setting a gun on the dinner table. "I wasn't going to shoot them. It's not even loaded. I just wanted to make a point."

 

"Yeah, I think you succeeded… in that. What the hell was that?"

 

"The yelp?" Buck asked, gathering up Wobbles from where he'd left her in her dog bed.

 

"Yeah, the… yelp and that crash." Sam moved towards the window to find out who was crashing out on the street. He never made it to find out, though. Instead, he got the shit scared out of him and landed on his ass when Clint's head suddenly popped up out of nowhere over the sill. Steve and Bucky, who had been moving that way to check it out too, bent over to help Sam to his feet, both trying to hide the fact that they'd jumped as well.

 

"Ya know what's funny? Watching little bigots like those punks go cartwheeling through the air when their front tires are shot out from under them. I doubt they'll be able to ride those bikes again." Clint hoisted himself into the apartment, bow slung over his chest, and then sauntered to the kitchen.

 

Nat quickly closed the window and pulled shut the curtains they never used. "Those kids really hit the ground hard. Are you sure they didn't see you, Clint?"

 

"Nah, they were hauling ass after you put the fear of god back into them. Never saw me coming. I'm starved. Got any food?" He stuck his head in the fridge and came back out with his arms full. "You always cook good stuff, Sam. Got any left here? Mm, what's this? Ooo sangria!"

 

* * *

 

After Halloween things settled down among them significantly, the pranks ended, the tension eased, and Clint was allowed to come and go as he pleased. Steve had had a feeling that his presence, his officially Natasha-sanctioned presence would be therapeutic, and it was. But only once the reason for the delay of his introduction was resolved. Whatever had been personally motivating Natasha's hesitation, if anything -- because she was a hard one to read in that regard --, she set it aside after her professional concerns were allayed. And that only took fastening silencers on twin firearms and setting Clint and Bucky free on the roof. With it established that Bucky was a better shot with a gun, he relaxed enough to act impressed by Clint's bow handling. He even went to sleep later without pause, knowing Barton was out in the front room, and had a nightmare-free night. Then Natasha had no reason to keep Barton from visiting.

 

With Barton a more commonplace fixture of their group and with the calm that washed in with that regularity, time seemed to past faster. Although he would disappear for several days at a time, it was always assumed that he would eventually return and when he did there would be fresh news, sometimes foreign liquors, and always a tie breaker for arguments or votes. And he was a good personality to add to their group dynamic. He was as pragmatic as Natasha or Bucky but more laid back and even drier in his commentary. He had a sense of humor too that met somewhere in between Buck's and Sam's. Steve also valued his opinion on just about anything because he was in the field and he knew more than he let on. Besides that, he naturally added a fresh perspective. Nobody looked at the world quite like Clint Barton did and it was good to have that kind of ingenuity on hand. He was just good to have around, and knowing that he was going to be back soon made the time that he was away pass quicker.

 

Before they could even blink it was already half-way through November and the cold of winter had fully set in. That particular morning, Barton had just dropped back in from one of his more extended absences and was hurrying to stuff his face before he had to set out again.

 

"I'm only here for a second," he said through a mouthful of bacon and eggs. "I gotta be somewhere. Actually, I'm s'posed to be there now. Oops. Mm, coffee."

 

"No, Clint, man! Not outta the pot!"

 

"Sorry--oh! Shit! Shit! That's hot down my front." He was hopping back and forth, wiping the coffee off his uniform when the knock sounded on the front door. Instead of running and hiding, he simply froze.

 

Natasha jerked a hand hard towards the window, but he only looked around the room like a deer in the headlights. They'd never caught him mischiefing, he wasn't good at the being caught part it seemed. Sam mouthed something to Bucky who had just checked the peephole. It was the Chief, Bucky's face told them, and most reasonable of them all, he picked up a blanket from the couch and threw it to Clint. Bow and quiver slid under the couch and Hawkeye gear covered by the big blanket, Buck opened the door.

 

"'Morning, Chief. Had a bit of a coffee SNAFU, but come on in." The puddle of spilt coffee that Clint had dribbled down his front was waved to as Bucky headed back to his seat.

 

"A shame! Well, good morning, all!" Steve had forgotten how stentorian the fire chief was somehow. His voice rang through the apartment and into their bones. "And newcomer! I don't believe I know you, son." He extended a hand to Clint. "You a significant other? Eh? Or family maybe? It is that time of year!"

 

"He's with me, Chief," Natasha replied in her Southern drawl that left Clint covering a laugh with a cough. "This is Clint. Clint, the Chief."

 

"Pleased to meet you," Clint managed, clearing his throat a few too many times. "Choking on coffee, sorry."

 

"That's alright, son. Good to see our new recruits keeping up some kind of a life. You from around here? Looking for a job, maybe?"

 

"No, I'm just visiting. On a break from work."

 

"You in a rough job? You're bandage is… ah, leaking." The Chief, looking the most disturbed they'd ever seen him, pointed to the bite wound that Natasha had just dressed on Clint's neck. Sure enough, he'd bled though it.

 

"Oh, that? Uh… well, you know… keeping the peace can be tough."

 

The Chief didn't notice Natasha smashing Clint's foot under the table. "A fellow civil servant, eh? I got tons of cop friends, you're in good company here."

 

"Yeah! Yeah, I'm a cop! I mean, yes, sir. I'm a cop. Just, ya know, a normal beat cop, taking my licks to keep people safe. I was wounded in the line of duty, but that doesn't stop me from putting my life down on the line everyday--"

 

"Oh, that's enough bragging now, darling," Natasha interrupted, also digging her elbow into Clint's ribs. "Don't want to sound self-satisfied. It's not attractive."

 

"That's alright, Kat. I appreciate police work, they're often at our backs out in the field. Anyway, I just popped in on you all to invite you to the firehouse thanksgiving dinner next week. I don't think you all have families in town, but if you do they're welcome to come as well. There'll be plenty of food, 'specially since you'll each be bringing a dish! And Clint, you're welcome as well. In fact, I'd be disappointed if I didn't meet someone special with each of you! It's about damn time we got to know you a bit."

 

"Of course, Chief." Steve grinned and stood, ready to walk him out, but he wasn't done.

 

He leaned across the table and pointed to the plate of homemade biscuits. "May I? Thanks. Now, be sure to come looking sharp, 'cause we're taking the yearly photo. It'll start a little after 2 on Thursday and last through the games, so come ready to eat all day. We especially need side dishes and desserts since my boys and their ladies are taking care of the turkey and ham with me. Mmm, and maybe bring some of these biscuits!" He took another for good measure and then headed for the door. "See you then!"

 

Steve resisted the urge to slide down the door and onto the floor once it was shut. "He wants us to bring dates? Us?"

 

"That is a very large, very loud man," Clint observed, leaning over to take a biscuit by example.

 

"Yeah, you could say that again. And the walrus always eats all my damn food. My poor biscuits."

 

"You can have mine," Steve replied, suddenly without an appetite. A whole day with the Chief would be trying enough, pretending to be people they weren't, and Steve would have to eat in his holomask, which was always nerve-racking, and in addition to all that, they had to bring dates? They didn't know people here. They had no significant others, besides Clint, and Natasha had already claimed him.

 

"There's no way we're going to be able to find dates for this, we'll just have to go stag. Or I will. Sam you might be able to, but… I'm _rusty_. And Steve's inept."

 

"Hey! … Well, you're not wrong." Steve didn't even feel like fighting the point. They all knew the extent of the truth behind Buck's tease.

 

"Uh… I think we got you covered," Clint announced, now un-blanketed and trying to rub the coffee stain from his uniform. "Aw, coffee, come on. No one's ever going to take me seriously, so why do I even try? Hawkeye! Expert marksman, professional clutz, dumbassery enthusiast. I can be the superhero in the stained uniform with a seeping neck wound."

 

"What _did_ bite you, Barton?"

 

Clint shook his head, exhaustion in his face. "A friggin snake. Don't ask. Anyway, I think Tasha and I can find you dates easy peasy."

 

"Lemon squeezy!"

 

Natasha blinked at Sam for a second and then nodded. "I agree. I already have three ladies in mind, three who know our situation and can play their roles with minimal effort on our part." She turned back to Clint, "so it's up to you, once you've finished with… whatever this is, to bring them back next week."

 

"You got it!" He was already half way to the window, quiver strapped on and bow stowed away. "I'll be in touch."

 

It was shatteringly cold for a second as he slipped out and then rather empty. Bucky snatched up the coffee pot Clint had claimed for himself and took a long drink from it. "Well, this should be interesting."

 

The next few days were quiet. More so than usual, idle conversation was down to a bare minimum and the four of them spent most of their time in passive activities: reading, movie-watching, that sort of thing. The routine didn't alter but their mood did. Natasha was pretty sure it was in anticipation to what sort of dates Clint would show up with in the days to come. The weather also didn't help. The thermostat had plummeted and with the disappearance of the mercury came the lack of sun. It wasn't snowy, but it was dreary, the heavy dark of night never quite fully retreating. It was winter. She was used to this. Notionally, so were they, but that didn't stop it from affecting even her mood. She found herself gravitating towards cozier places to work, yawning at eleven in the morning, drifting off to sleep as she typed.

 

It was hibernation season and their extended vacation had allowed that to actually affect her, to make her complacent. And yet she did nothing about it. It was three days after Clint had skittered off, and she was wavering between watching the early evening news and napping with Wobbles against Bucky's shoulder when her phone chimed finally. Steve was doing laundry in the back, singing softly to himself, while Sam was snoring almost in time on the couch beside her. With Bucky wearing his headphones and reading, Natasha was the only one to hear the phone and she was in no position to get up and answer it. So, for once in her life, she didn't. She let it go and drifted to sleep.

 

When it chimed again sometime later, it did so twice. She had two new messages and was nowhere closer to moving. But Bucky seemed to have heard it and slipped from under her and Wobbles to go retrieve it.

 

"Must be Barton," he said, handing her the phone before sinking back into his spot and patting his lap for Wobbles to reclaim hers. Natasha scratched the little dog behind the ears as she decrypted the first message. The volume on the television increased as she worked. "I think he finished his mission," Bucky noted, with a hint of humor in his voice.

 

Natasha looked up in time to just read the headline before getting barraged by photos of Clint in uniform.

 

"'Notorious gang bent on domestic terrorism taken down by one-time Avenger, Hawkeye.' Wow, he really knows how to stay off the radar, doesn't he?"

 

"Ah," Natasha sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "That's not his usual style. It must've been a tough situation. That, or he just fucked up royally, which sometimes happens with him."

 

"He's a great shot, but he seems like a bit of a dipwad sometimes." Bucky turned back down the volume and put his arm over the back of the couch. "Don't we all, though?"

 

"Ha. Well… ah…" She scanned the contents of the first message. Just a confirmation of what the news was airing. " _Common sense_ sometimes eludes him, yes. Happens to the best of us, oh, he's stopping by New York and then heading our way." She broke the second message with more ease. It made her chuckle.

 

"He have us some dates lined up?"

 

"That he does." This would be interesting.

 

"Well, if that's the case, it's time." Bucky collected Wobbles off of his lap and wedged her into a snuggle with the still snoring Sam. "Gotta look my best, after all." He stood and held out his hand for her.

 

"Time for what, Bucky?"

 

"For the haircut. The real haircut."

 

Natasha took his hand and stood, but feigned ignorance. "The _real_ haircut?" This smelled like something that Bucky needed to express fully.

 

He gave her a soft grin, tucking away hair mussed from headphones and the couch nap. "I remember you, you know. Remembered you, even back in D.C.. I knew you from before then, from a long time ago."

 

That was not what she expected. It was competeley tangential, in fact. Natasha hesitated to answer, because hers was a complicated one. He merely met her eyes and waited. So at ease, so… healthy of him.

 

Natasha answered frankly. "I don't remember you." Well, not _frankly_. She paused over that one again. "… I remember you, but then I don't." There, that was _frankly_. "Years ago, I knew your eyes before you shot through me, but…"

 

He shrugged before she could finish sloshing through the muddle of her time _before_. "Brainwashing. Funny how it works. They scrub and scrub and it may look clean but something's still there. Even if they can't tell what it is that's left it, it's still there." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and then nodded towards the kitchen table. "Give me the _real_ haircut, the one you don't remember me having from back then."

 

"Okay, fine," she chuckled and waved him on. "Just let me respond to Barton first."

 

Bucky nodded, throwing her a grin she couldn't read and then slipped towards the back of the apartment. He must have passed Steve as he went, the steady popping of laundry pausing and his voice floating out. "I thought you all were napping. I stayed back here so I wouldn't wake you."

 

"Well, we were but now we're not. Sam's still sawing logs, though."

 

"What're you doing? Hey, how'd you know that was there?"

 

"You act perfect, but when you do shady stuff, Steve, it's really obvious. And don't worry, you'll like it." Bucky reappeared holding a file folder and tossed it onto the table across from Natasha. "In case your not remembering isn't sufficient. That's the real haircut."

 

Natasha knew the cut before she opened the file, but did it anyways. "Ah, the classic Bucky Barnes. Yes, I believe I can work with this. Just sit down and watch the decades rewind." She pushed him into a chair and slid the folder back to him. "So, you found Steve's secret Bucky shrine?" Steve had started keeping notes about Bucky after coming back from visiting Peggy. Natasha figured it was so he could keep an account of things should someone else forget their life, though she couldn't be sure.

 

"It wasn't that secret. He's been adding to it every two days or so." He flipped through the pages and then handed it to her. "This entry's my favorite: 'B. was a complete jerk. Improvement tangible.' It's succinct but really speaks volumes."

 

"It's also accurate," Natasha chuckled softly. "Hold on, I need a razor for this, after I scissor the top." Bucky was writing in the file when she returned from her bathroom. "What are you doing, James?"

 

"Nothin'. Well, that's a lie. I'm adding today's entry. I imagine he'll wanted this _improvement_ noted. 'B. cut his hair to Commando's standard. Improvement visible.' Sounds about right, right?"

 

"It's certainly stylistically similar."

 

"Mm, but it's not quite complete. 'B. also discovered the running evaluation on him under mattress. Finds it condescending but not surprising.' There. Now it's done."

 

"Yes, a valuable contribution. Now hold still."

 

He sat perfectly still as she lopped chunks of hair off for exactly one minute and twenty-six seconds. "You can do this, can't you? I just assumed that you can, but that feels like an awful lot of hair you're taking off. I don't want a military buzz like the fellas wear now."

 

"I know what I'm doing, James. I'm not blind either."

 

"Okay…" He started clicking his left hand against the table. "I wish there were a mirror in here."

 

"I'm not going to ruin your hair. I know how much it means to you. Stop fretting. Think about something else. Anything else." She ran her fingers through the hair over his ears and held it out to see if it was even. It was precision trimming time, then the razor.

 

"Okay… I have a question for you. You don't have to answer it, 'cause it may be unpleasant, but…"

 

"Spit it out."

 

"What did they make you into?"

 

It was sand in her mouth but she said it, "a weapon, what else? Certainly not a dancer like I'd wanted."

 

"You were a wonderful dancer, Natalia," he sighed.

 

The scissors stopped in her hand as the not remembering faltered and a few fractures bled through. Then, just as suddenly, it was gone and she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

 

"Like I said earlier, I knew you that day, the day you all saved me, I just couldn't decipher what it meant that I knew you, or Steve. It was there, the information was there to be used, but it didn't make any sense to me. I couldn't put it together, couldn't find its significance. So, I did what did make sense, I followed protocol." He clicked his tongue and nearly made Natasha break her word by shaking his head. "I'm sorry for trying to kill you all. I don't think I've actually said that yet."

 

"That's okay, Bucky." She grabbed the crown of his head and held it in place. "Just stay still before I accidently shave a star into your hair."

 

"Oh, a haircut. Wow, Buck! Changing things up, huh?" Appearing out of nowhere, Steve sat down, grinning his American-sized smile. "Nat's doing a great job. I'm gonna feel like I'm back in the Black Forest soon, except… maybe not there… back in Brooklyn."

 

"Would you say the improvement is visible?" Bucky asked drily and made Natasha snort.

 

"You're not supposed to read the file, Buck. Oh! Or write in it. This is for… this is an evaluation for Stark."

 

"Well, if it's for Stark, he might find Bucky's addition charming."

 

Steve was not so amused. "This is invalidated. I'll have to recompile it now."

 

"Or you could make a mark in the margins that I wrote that and it shows my excellent sense of humor and willingness to take criticism."

 

"You mean _to mock_ criticism?"

 

"Satirize it? Mock it? Take it? Potato, potato, potahto."

 

"Not take it seriously, that's for sure," Steve grumbled and marched back towards their room with the file. Natasha was having a difficult time not laughing.

 

"He would have found that funny seventy four years ago."

 

"Maybe. He'd probably find it funny now too if it weren't a part of your Avengers application."

 

"What?!" Natasha yanked the razor away just in time as Bucky whipped around to look at her. "All that shit is going to be considered before they let me into the Vendetta Squad?"

 

"If it's for Stark."

 

She nodded and Bucky sank lower into the chair, hands over his face. "I don't want them knowing all that! That's just… embarrassing! I let you guys hose me down and then scrub me clean like a dog. I couldn't choose my own clothing! How is that going to look good on a superhero team application? I had a meltdown over being compared to a tiger! No! They can know who I am and who I was, but not how! Steve! STEVE!"

 

"Would you shut the hell up! I'm trying to have an unplanned, incredibly overlong nap!" Sam's head popped up over the side of the couch. "Nobody gives a shit that you had psychological scars, only that you got over them! Fuck! Come 'ere, Wobbs. Back to cuddlin'."

 

"What are you guys screaming about?" Steve reemerged, ink on his face from where his pen had obviously bled as he chewed it.

 

"You can't tell the Avengers all that shit. It's bad enough you three know that I was… like that. I'm not going to get a vote of confidence after they read that."

 

"Just relax, Bucky." Natasha turned his head straight and put a guard on her razor to finish cleaning up his neck. "Those files will be sealed by Stark."

 

"Once they've all read them. That's the problem!"

 

"Well, it's not as though what's in there is breaking news. They all know bits and piece of it already. The file just gives a complete narrative, I'm assuming."

 

"Oh, fuck me."

 

Natasha met Steve's eye and shrugged. Bucky deserved to know the truth. She pointed to his ink stain and shooed him off, turning back to brush the clippings off Bucky's neck and shoulders. "Stop worrying, James. Remember what I told you a few weeks ago? They'll be convinced. No matter what. You're a good man." She leaned over and hugged his neck. "They'll see that. Now, turn around. Let's see you."

 

He was fully sulking when he finally turned to face her. But his hair looked great.

 

"And now you look the part like you wanted. Your date will be _very_ excited. And, you know, when you _are_ accepted into the squad, I'll set you up on some real dates. The girls will be bribing me shamelessly to get on that list." Natasha kissed him lightly on his newly revealed cowlick and shoved him out of the chair. "Go on. Go look, and tell Steve to get ready for a cut and dye. He's next after Sam. Sam! Samuel Wilson! Up and at 'em. I'm cutting that hair of yours!"

 

"Naaaaaaaat, nooooooooo. I'm nappin'. And I love my fro." He may have been whining but Sam was already shuffling over to the chair, Wobbles limping behind him. He wasn't much trouble, a quick five minute buzz and he fell back asleep part of the way through. "Thanks, Nat," he yawned.

 

"Not a problem." She collected her tools and headed towards the back. Steve hated getting his hair dyed, he was probably hiding. She dropped the things off in her bathroom and then rapped at their door. "Come on, Rogers! You gotta come out some time and when you do, you're getting your hair… dyed. Where's Steve?"

 

Bucky had opened the door wearing a completely different outfit. "In the bathroom."

 

"Okay… why are you wearing that?" She pointed to the old army dress kit with its full regalia that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

 

He looked down and shrugged. "Shits and giggles."

 

"Oh, Natasha, I'll be right out. I just wanted to wash my hair before you dyed it so it would set better." Steve scampered out in a towel and, grabbing some underwear, ran back into the bathroom.

 

"So… he took a shower and you put on his dress uniform?"

 

"No, this is mine." He pointed to his left chest. "See? _Barnes_. Mine. Little tight now." He hunched forward his shoulders and Natasha could practically hear the seams creaking. "Steve kept it, it was in his stuff they recovered, now it's mine again."

 

"And _… why_ are you wearing it?"

 

He shrugged again. "To see if it would fit. Really, to see if I looked the same in it. Steve took a picture to put in the file for a comparison." He grabbed the camera off Steve's bed and held up the screen to the old sepia photo already in the file. "I think it's strikingly similar."

 

"Well, youare the same person," Natasha scoffed and then took the two to hold side by side. "But, I agree, almost a one to one. You look a little older, that's all."

 

"How dare you!? I haven't aged a day. I don't think the seventy years shows at all. Steve? Steve, do you think I look older?"

 

"You certainly don't look younger. That uniform's working a lot harder."

 

"Punk." Bucky snickered as Steve pushed past him. "It's muscle weight. Enjoy your dye job!"

 

Natasha and Steve had gone through this process several times already, so it was basically old hat by then. They sat in the tub, lathered in the dye and then chatted as they waited for it to set. They just didn't usually have an audience. Bucky barged in two minutes into the dye setting, back in normal clothing and with Steve's camera.

 

"What are you doing, Buck?"

 

"Documenting." He snapped a few pictures, stepped back to admire them and then sauntered out.

 

"I suppose I deserve that. After making his recovery process required reading for the Avengers."

 

"Yeah, I suppose you did. The question is: did I?" Natasha nodded down to the rubber gloves and butcher's apron she was wearing and frowned. "Maybe…"

 

"Alright, I uploaded that to… something. Well, Sam did it. Downloaded? It's somewhere, and I'll have it forever to show anyone I want. A cloud? A sky drive. One of those things." Bucky hopped up onto Natasha's counter and started cutting his right hand's nails. "Now, we're even."

 

"Now we're even," Steve conceded. "Good thing we're not deployed. That kind of back and forth pranking could have gotten us in trouble back in the day. You could have pushed me into one of the Nazi dragon pits."

 

Natasha scoffed, "Nazi dragon pits? Really, Steve? There were no Nazi dragon pits. There were no dragons."

 

"Oh, really?" Bucky said behind her. "Were you there? How would you know?"

 

"That would be in some sort of report somewhere…" Natasha couldn't believe it but she could feel her confidence on the subject waning as these two living legends stared at her with utter seriousness. "I would have read about them. I… my clearance… There were no dragons."

 

Bucky hopped off the counter and pulled off his shirt, turning to show her his back and pointing to a long white scar over his ribs. "Nazi. Dragon. Claw. Scar. Right there. You tell me there weren't dragons… pshh. Look at it. Feel it." He leaned backwards so his back was within reach.

 

Natasha was just about to pull off her glove and touch the line when Sam popped into the bathroom as well.

 

"Did I hear y'all say something about _Nazi dragons_?"

 

Steve burst into laughter.

 

"Damn it, Steve! I was just about to convince Sam too!" Bucky cracked a grin and pulled his shirt back on.

 

"I'm sorry, but the looks on their faces! So funny!" Steve was nearly doubled over, dye running down his face. "Oh, my word! That scar is from before the war. He got that--ha! He got that falling out of a window and landing on a fire escape wrong."

 

Bucky nodded. "Broke four ribs," he said proudly. "Where the railing sliced me open you could see the bone. Steve fainted."

 

"I hyperventilated, actually. The asthma."

 

"So… there were no Nazi dragons?" Sam asked with disappointment.

 

That elicited more laughter. "No."

 

"Aw, damn. That was gonna be awesome. Okay, so how'd you fall out the window?"

 

"Stupidly."

 

"Thanks, Steve. Actually, we were playing catch inside and Steve overthrew and I insisted on catching it, through the window."

 

"And did you? Catch it?"

 

"Yes," Bucky basically beamed.

 

"Really?"

 

Snorts of joy. "God, no! I was falling to my death, I did not catch the ball."

 

"It broke a car window on the street, though."

 

"Yeah, Steve's always been strangely proud of that."

 

"I was proud I had the strength to break something."

 

"Gravity really did that job for you."

 

"Well, you jumped out of a window to catch a baseball. Don't act like you're the smart one here."

 

Natasha rolled her eyes and reached for the shower head. It was time to rinse Steve. "Okay, that's enough. Now at least we know to take your fish tales with a grain of salt."

 

"Speaking of, how much of what you two have boasted about has been true?" Sam asked over the spritz of the water.

 

"Uh… about seventy five percent. We just started recently testing to see how much you would believe. It took a while to finally find the line for credibility. And that line is mystical creatures."

 

"You two are assholes."

 

Natasha couldn't help but echo Sam's sentiment, begrudging laugh included. Such assholes. And she had zero complaints with them, with Clint, with everything all of a sudden. In fact, things were working out _just_ _fine_. She kept the smile on her face, but inside she wondered just how well that boded. Things didn't tend to work out just fine with their sort. No, that just wasn't in the cards for them. Good thing Clint would be there soon. He would tell her if she was being cautious or paranoid. Or both.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so I know I've already talked at you at the beginning of this thing, but I got more to say! This is the last chapter set of Relationships like I warned you all a while back. The next is the Higher Function block opening up with SELF-RESPECT in several parts, and finished off (yes, this thing does have an end in sight) with SELF-ACTUALIZATION, also in several parts. I don't know how long it's going to take me to finish these chapters up, but find comfort in the fact that INTIMACY pt. 2 is already finished and merely waiting for me to edit it.
> 
> As always, I appreciate each and every one of you, from signed comments to beautiful little anonymous numbers on my stats page! Ta-ta!


	15. INTIMACY pt. 2

Nat was a superhero, but up until that day, Sam had thought that she didn't have actual superpowers. She couldn't fly, or hulk out, and she wasn't stronger or faster than normal. She was just a badass, right? Well, wrong. That lady had superpowers like nobody's business. She could orchestrate just about anything to a t, hack a government database, and make sure everyone looked their absolute best, all at the same time. She had super mental faculties, no doubt. Nobody could multi-task that well ever. And she'd been doing it since four o' clock that morning.

 

"The bathrooms are clean, but I'm still pretty sure they're not going to care how well they can see their reflections in the tile if they don't have a towel to use."

 

"Trust me, Barnes, they will care. Half of them are used to the immaculate facilities at S.H.I.E.L.D.. And the towels are on their way."

 

"Couldn't have been that immaculate if no one noticed the HYDRA fuckholes usin' 'em."

 

"Don't start with me, Barnes!"  

But, like a lot of superpowers, they came at a price. Nat with her superpowers at full blast was worse than a drill sergeant. She had started barking at them by their surnames again that morning when Project Spic n Span had begun with a bang. Or more like a bull horn. Clean up work was being done not only at double time but to an unattainable standard. The OCD, the barked orders, the quick temper, those were the side effects. It all boiled down to the fact that Nat was not reacting well to Clint only giving them five hours heads up. Apparently, he'd made it seem like they'd be there a day or so later. And when Nat wasn't in absolute control, she created artificial conditions that allowed for her to have almost absolute control. Today it was the cleanliness of the apartment in the face of Clint's non-linear grasp of time. Or that's so much as Sam could surmise while he was having to go over the stove burners with a literal toothbrush.

 

"There are more efficient ways to clean surfaces like these than toothbrushes, Nat. Just sayin'."

 

She looked up from the floor, which by the way she was cleaning with a sponge, her computer poised on the edge of the wet line so she could type on it as she went. "They may feel more efficient, but they don't achieve the same level of clean, Wilson. Trust me. Barnes, if you're finished in the bathrooms, you should shower and get dressed to start making up the spare beds."

 

"Fine, but maybe I should have showered before I cleaned. Now I'm just going to fuck up the sparkliness, washing off the grime I scrubbed out of it thirty minutes ago. And with four people per bathroom, it doesn't matter how much we clean, it's not going to stay clean for long!" He slammed shut the door to his and Steve's room, leaving Sam to silently agree with him, while still understanding Nat's motivations here.

 

They were going to have guests, quite a few guests. So, a tidy place was good. He also didn't want to throw a wrench into her coping mechanism and see her superpowers go into meltdown. So, Sam shut up and went back to making tiny little scrubbing motions over the stove top.

 

Steve barged in a few minutes later with grocery bags past his ears and sweat running out from under his holomask."They keep the places here heated way too high. It was almost ninety degrees in the store. I'm sweating. Maybe also from the stress of this time crunch, but really!"

 

"Yes, we see your sweat. Step off the cleaned floor, unload your bags and bring in the rest."

 

"This _is_ the rest. I brought it all in at once."

 

"This is all of it, Rogers? This is towels and sheets and toiletries and paper towels and onions and all the other foodstuffs for the dishes we're making? And you did this when people could see you?"

 

Steve scratched the back of his head. "Yes? But I'm pretty sure no one saw me."

 

"Okay, if you say so. Let's get it unloaded."

 

By the time Project Spic n Span was actually complete, everyone was ready to kill everyone else. But the place looked great and so did they, forced smiles included. Nat was pacing around the kitchen ticking and re-ticking off items on her mental checklist as they waited for their guests to arrive. They were already ten minutes late.

 

"If we hurried around like deranged janitors for the past six hours for nothing, Natasha, I can't guarantee that I won't revert to murderousness." Buck was combing Wobbles' unruly fur coat into something resembling a dog instead of a brown and grey dust bunny. Even she had to look her best.

 

"We didn't. They're just running late. Or Barton's late, sometimes he has problems with timing." Her voice sounded a little frayed. Her superpowers were running low. "We have the food. And the soap. Beds are made up. Extra encryption on our WiFi, yes."

 

She kept pacing and Steve and Sam watched with weak concern. She was always the one telling them to relax, so her on edge… well, it was not relaxing.

 

"Tasha!" Buck finally said, standing from the couch and putting the dog in her hands. "You're making Steve grind his teeth again. Just… pet the dog, and calm the fuck down. You're never like this, so stop."

 

She blinked at him, looking like she was deciding between tasing him into a coma and laughing hysterically, and then just powered down. "No, you're right." Her energy level plummeted as she sunk into a chair. "I'm being ridiculous. It's just some friends and Clint, I don't know what got into me, just a little anal retentive sometimes. It's being cooped up here. I feel the complacency and I either do nothing about it or do too much. Damn it." She hugged Wobbles to her and rubbed little heavenly circles behind her ears.

 

Buck patted Nat's shoulder and then turned to Sam and Steve, holding out his hands in a question. "You two were just gonna _watch_ her have a meltdown?"

 

"She's the one in control usually."

 

"I didn't want to make her melt down faster--"

 

The excuses were cut short by a knock at the door. They all froze except for Nat, who was suddenly the picture of mental health again. She set Wobbles back in Buck's arms and proceeded to answer the door.

 

The first thing that they all saw was a wall of duffle bags and cases. Clint was loaded down with the things, trying to edge inside the door.

 

"Uh, need some help?" Sam caught some, Steve the rest, as they met him just inside the door.

 

"You had to carry them all yourself?"

 

"We offered to help," said a vaguely familiar voice behind Clint.

 

"But… with the hoods it was no dice." That one Sam didn't recognize.

 

"Barton. Really? Hoods?" Nat moved past the bag barricade and led the three hooded women into the apartment. "I mean, they're going to know where they're at as soon as you take the hoods off. And they signed nondisclosure agreements with Stark, even _if_ we were concerned about them leaking information, which we're not."

 

"I know," Clint panted, "I did it for the drama. Ladies, welcome to super soldier rehab. Guys, meet the ladies. Actually, you actually know each other in large part. Lucky, come 'ere!" He leaned out the front door as Nat took their hoods off, like he was waiting for someone.

 

"I hope he's not just shouting to the great beyond," Sam mumbled to Buck, who snickered.

 

"No tellin'."

 

"No, Lucky's the dog," replied the unfamiliar voice who had just recovered a face and was smoothing out her hair. "Lucky! Come 'ere!"

 

A jingling of dog tags and the romping thump-thump of running paws soon brought a golden retriever barreling into the apartment and sent Wobbles batshit crazy in Buck's arms.

 

"Whoa! Hey, girl, you're alright." She was writhing and wriggling hard no matter what Buck did, so he let her go onto the ground and watched with the most pained mother bear look as she wobbled over to the new dog.

 

"That's Lucky, he's a good dog," announced the unfamiliar girl, hair now smoothed out and little smirk in place. She was eyeing Buck like a hawk, which he didn't seem to notice, concerned as he was with Wobbles. "Don't worry he won't hurt the little one. He's handicapped too, lost an eye. What's her name?"

 

"Wobbles," Buck responded without looking away.

 

"Well, this is Katie, my protégé," Clint chimed in, having closed the door and thrown the last of his gear to the ground.

 

This Katie girl punched him in the arm and rolled her eyes. "Kate. And I'm not a protégé if I'm better than you at your job."

 

"Don't listen to her, she's crazy. She likes _Jersey_. Now, you all know Hill already. Say 'hi', Maria. And last but not least, Sharon Carter, who Steve kinda sorta knows but no one else. And that's my job for the day. I'm taking a nap." He swept up a duffle bag and slouched back toward Nat's room, with her following at a causal, though firm, pace in his wake.

 

That left an awkward kind of elephant in the room situation going down out by the front door. Everyone knew they were there to be dates eventually, but that wasn't what they would be doing the whole time they were there. Should they pair off now and get it over with, or have some horrible gym class situation before the meal where someone flips a coin and someone else gets picked last?

 

"I pick Wilson." Or that could happen. Maria shrugged when everyone stared at her. "Sorry guys. It's just, we were all standing here thinking it, so I did it." She gave Sam a nod, then scooped up her bags and headed to the back, interrupting the conversation Clint and Nat were having with practiced indifference. Sam edged away as the other four of them milled.

 

Steve made eye contact a few times with the Sharon, who had to be the Sharon Nat had kept talking about, and Sam knew what was going on there. Eventually he shrugged at Buck and held his hand out to shake hers. "Good to see you again, neighbor. Uh…"

 

"Yeah, you too, Captain Rogers. Just Sharon works."

 

"Right, uh, just Steve for me as well…"

 

"Okay, well… um… We sorta know each other already, so it might be easier…"

 

"Yeah, you know, we might as well go as dates, since we know each other some." He cleared his throat, looked apologetically over at Bucky, and walked with Sharon to the kitchen.

 

That left just Buck and this Katie kid. He looked petrified. It was even funnier than Sam could ever had hoped something like that to be. Buck followed Steve and Sharon with his eye, betrayed and panicking, and determinedly _not_ looking at the kid. She was undeterred. Sidling up to him she stuck her hands in her pockets and her chest out and straight up hit on him. It made Sam's day.

 

"I guess that leaves you and me, big boy."

 

Buck finally looked down at her then, confusion and horror escalating to new levels on his face.

 

"I saw you on the news, ripping that steering wheel right out of that car. Wicked cool." She mimicked the steering-wheel rippage, sound effects included. When Buck still only stared, she edged closer and tried again. "You know, I read about you in school. You were always my favorite Howling Commando." Still no response. She went into the third round looking to win. "Can I see the arm? It's _so_ sexy."

 

She grinned up from under her lashes really flirty like, but Buck just looked around like she was speaking an alien language. When he looked at him, Sam shrugged. It registered then, or rather the reality of the situation finally hit him hard and fast, and Buck turned his incredulous face on. "You're just a kid." He glanced around to see if anyone else was also concerned by this fact. "She's an infant! I can't bring a child as my date."

 

"Hey, hey now. I'm not a child. I'm a legal adult!" Buck was walking away by now. She was hollering after him. Then, scrambling. "I'm older than I look! Come back! You're _pretty_!" She stopped momentarily when the door shut in her face, but she was persistent. "This is not over. I'll convince him," came what Sam thought would be ironic last words before Katie slipped inside as well. That lasted all of about four seconds, and soon she was set right back outside the door by her shoulders.

 

"You'll be my little sister. End of discussion."

 

She looked to be about to respond, but Buck shut the door in her face again and this time Sam heard it lock. Katie stared at the door for a moment and then shrugged and marched away. "He's playing hard to get. That's fine," she told her audience of one, strutting past him. "I love a challenge."

 

Steve and Sharon had started off with small talk in the kitchen over some coffee, catching up on the new jobs:

 

"So, how's working for the CIA?"

 

"Good, it's good. Dental plan is excellent. How's firefighting?"

 

"Good. Exciting."

 

"Good…"

 

Commenting on the apartment:

 

"And, uh, the apartment back in--"

 

"D.C.? Yeah, I'm still there. Yours is fine too, by the way. I checked."

 

"Thanks."

 

"Not a problem. … This one's nice."

 

"Thanks, yeah, we like it."

 

Hell, Steve had even resorted to pointing out the old architectural details:

 

"Yeah, you know this is a pre-World War II building. Yeah, the arch of the doors there and there? That's a really very Tudor-revival touch. And the fixtures, they're all unique."

 

"Oh, that's interesting."

 

"Yeah, they must have gutted the place to expose the brick and beams, but they left the fixtures…"

 

"Wow, I wouldn't have known that."

 

They were trying, and the ease was a potential there, but for now it was still a little forced. That made it a very easy decision for the two of them to put their idle chatting on hold to watch Kate's drama with Bucky. They were disappointed when he shut her down so fast. That meant they had to try talking again. Steve could literally see Sharon's relief when Kate made her way over to them.

 

"Hey, Cap--"

 

"Please, just call me Steve. Please."

 

"Yeah, Capt'n Steve, you’re his friend, you'll talk to him for me right?"

 

He and Sharon exchanged a look. Their first natural communication. "Well, I can certainly try, Kate, but Bucky's a hard nut to crack when he decides to be."

 

"Oh, I am the nutcracker. I'll crack 'em hard. I just need some extra oomph." A little furrow formed between her brows. "On second thought, I take that back. No nutcracking. Don't tell him I said that. Just… I just want to win him over. I'm actually excellent company."

 

"You know how you can win him over?" Now Sam had joined them as well, enjoying the whole situation far too much. "By persistence. Wear him down. You seem like you could handle that. Just keep at him night and day and he'll change his mind eventually."

 

Kate nodded along enthusiastically and Steve began to worry she might actually take Sam's smart-alecky advice. "Don't give up."

 

"That's right, don't give up. He puts on a show, but he's all cotton fluff under that metal and leather. He's like your most emo teddy bear."

 

"Sam…"

 

Despite the admonitory look Steve put on, Sam just kept grinning. Bless Sharon for her tact.

 

"Uh, hey, Kate? Why don't we go unpack our bags… and discuss subtlety in romantic pursuits. You know, Barnes is a man from another time. You might need to take a different approach than guns a-blazing."

 

"Oh, yeah. Carter woman wisdom. You've got super soldier smittening in your blood. Tell me your secrets."

 

The two of them walked away with their bags, Sharon's arm around Kate's shoulder. She flashed a grin and a wink back his way as the two sat on the air beds by the couch.

 

"What a firecracker. She is going to be a good time."

 

Steve felt old just then, like he was too old for this sort of thing, for what was about to come out of his mouth. "Now, don't encourage her, Sam. Buck's not going to just forget his principles if she irritates him for long enough. In fact, her pushing his buttons might really push a big, red button. We don't need that."

 

"Oh, fine. Yeah…" Sam's grin wilted to something more reasonable. "You're right. You old fogey. Damn, that would've been a show worth watching. I mean, without the destruction of months of therapy and the blood and murder and stuff."

 

"Yeah, without all those things…"

 

Sam gave a light chuckle as Steve sighed and crossed his arms. "You gotta lighten up, man. You're gonna etch wrinkles into that timeless face of yours. Besides, there's nothing to worry about. Buck's better. I don't even think he's got that big red button anymore, but that's just my humble opinion. See? He's coming out now…"

 

A door did open down the hallway, it just wasn't Steve and Bucky's door.

 

It was the door to Natasha's room, its occupants spilling out in an assortment of moods. Natasha and Hill looked normal, somewhere in between alert and amused. Clint on the other hand, looked like he'd just been walloped upside the head with a punching bag. He seemed tired and dazed and completely nonplussed by anything, but without the energy to care. He was overcooked. Steve hadn't noticed just how much of a beating he must've taken with those 'domestic terrorists' when he first came in. But he had a black eye, the bite on his neck was still bleeding, something had happened that made one side of his jaw look like it'd gone through a meat-grinder and then been glued back together again, and he had non-age-appropriate bandages on a disproportionate amount of exposed skin. He looked like hell. He needed that nap he wasn't getting.

 

"Hey, Steve, I got something for you." He squatted down next to a duffle that had been left unclaimed beside the front door. "Stark had a care package or something he wanted me to bring you. Actually, it's several packages. Aw, fingernail…" The zipper stopped purring and Clint retrieved the whole of his middle finger's nail from the floor. "I need every one of you that I can get. Stop falling off."

 

"Uh… Clint? You sure you don't want to save this until after you rest? Maybe after someone takes you to a doctor?"

 

"No, no. I'm fine. Ish. I've learned not to expect much better than this. Besides, I wear gloves when I work, so…" He shrugged and stood to throw the nail away. "Anyway, your packages." He handed about four briefcases over and then returned to fishing in the duffle. "Oh, and Sam, Stark had something for you as well. It's early Christmas in here and I'm Santa friggin' Claus. Here."

 

Sam also received a case of sorts, his a more menacing metal and carbonite to Steve's discreet set. He could practically hear the curiosity humming off of Sam. Admittedly, Steve's interest was piqued about it too. But that would have to wait to be sated. A ruckus was on the precipice of being made, as Bucky had just stealthily emerged from their room and was making a bee line for Wobbles. Unfortunately for him, there was no amount of stealth that he could have employed to exit that door without Kate noticing. She was en route to intercept him. But then something incredible happened that reminded Steve that he was in a roomful of highly expert spies and assassins.

 

It started with Clint, who despite looking beaten to hell managed to notice Steve's trail of attention and decipher its significance. He whistled softly, a strange minor chord that caught Natasha's ear immediately and alerted her to the strange gravity of the room. She smothered a smile in Bucky's direction and attempted a distraction. Clearly, Clint or Hill had already filled her in on the fixation Kate had developed, which meant they heard about it on the way here, or Natasha was just that good. There was no way to tell.

 

"Sharon, Kate, if you want, I've cleared out my bathroom so you guys have space for your things. It's this way, why don't you bring 'em back now." Sharon met her eye as Natasha spoke, unspoken elaboration of the situation exchanged, and she immediately played along as natural as anything.

 

"Absolutely. Oh, and do you all have some lotion? We were just saying how dry it is here, weren't we Kate?"

 

With all attention in the room on her and thus her ambush spoiled, Kate conceded defeat and retreated back to her stuff to begin unloading a few smaller bags. "Yeah, I can feel my skin cracking off…" The spunkiness was only half there. Her eye was still on Bucky, who was now finally scooping Wobbles from her bed and heading towards the pup cabinet. Steve knew what he was doing, he was going to try to escape using Wobbles as an excuse.

 

"She is incorrigible." Hill was heading to join Steve and Sam where they stood watching the show. She was an expert in eye rolling, as demonstrated at that moment, twice. "This has been all I've heard about today for about five hours. Apparently, as soon as Barton told her the game plan, Katie began formulating this fantasy about Barnes. She's got quite the…"

 

"Crush?" Steve offered.

 

"Yes, well, no. I was going to say infatuation."

 

Steve couldn't contest that point, especially as he watched her bore holes into Bucky's back with her eyes. He'd gotten out the collar and leash and was fishing around for a pickup bag when the dog tags clattered together and Lucky barked happily. He bounded over to where Buck knelt and sniffed around, effectively ruining the spy-intervention. Kate dropped what she'd been gathering and stood, a plot in her eyes.

 

"Are you taking Wobbles for a walk?"

 

A collective sigh breathed from the room, their careful evasion foiled, and Bucky actually sunk a few inches closer to the ground.

 

"Yes," he mumbled, still too much a product of their time to just ignore a direct question.

 

"Great! Lucky could use a walk too, after being in that car for so long. I'll come with."

 

If she saw the defeat in Bucky's posture, she didn't pay it any mind. The rest of the room surely did, exchanging looks mixed with pity and amusement. Steve felt bad, worse than earlier, and even though he wasn't _really_ worried about Bucky being pushed to his limit now, he didn't want to abandon him to this ordeal like before. He took advantage of the spy/assassin unspoken communication line that was still open and caught Natasha's eye. She nodded quickly as he looked over to Bucky and stepped forward.

 

"You know, that's actually a great idea, Kate. We should all go. There's a park nearby and it would be nice to enjoy some plein air time while the weather's allowing it."

 

Sam hopped on the pity bus too, "yeah. I'm down. There're benches there, I can pack up our lunch and bring it out with us. This way y'all can see some of the little town."

 

"Oh, and I brought a frisbee!" Clint stooped over and began scattering the contents of yet another duffel in search of said frisbee. "We can play frisbee! Do you guys know how long it's been since I just… had fun? Wow, that sounds sad. We're playing ultimate frisbee."

 

"That sounds great," Steve chimed in, "a great plan. Natasha, Bucky, why don't you two take our guests down to the park and get set up. Sam and I will join you once we've got lunch all packed up. Okay?"

 

"Works for me," Natasha winked as she began herding their dates. "Come on, jackets, gloves and hats for everyone. Oh, and someone bring a few blankets just in case." They followed, all actually pretty content with the idea. Clint was the closest Steve had ever seen him to excited. He was almost bouncing. Poor guys, agents all, hardworking and stressed from the fallout of SHIELD, which was essentially his doing. They deserved an escape into civilian anonymity and carefreeness.

 

As the group filtered past and out the front door, Bucky lagged a second, letting Hill move between him and Kate, but also giving Steve an appreciative smirk. He may have still been a bit put off by her foiling of his escape, but he was definitely aware and glad for the effort everyone else had put into helping him avoid any more uncomfortable confrontations. Steve returned the grin, but was himself, a little selfishly, glad that this had worked out as it did. He was pretty sure Stark's 'care package' was something Steve wanted to open without an audience.

 

"Got a secret present from Mr. Stark you don't wanna share there, Steve-o?" Sam was fiddling with the clasps of his case, but seemed reluctant to open it. But then again, he also wasn't starting in on prepping lunch, so he couldn't have been _that_ reluctant.

 

Steve gave him a look and then shrugged. "Well, if I'm correct, there's something in here that's a surprise. Wouldn't want to ruin it. What about you? Why haven't you investigated?"

 

"Oh, this? I know what's in here." Sam had seen a few of these in his time, the last being when he was finally commissioned his full field gear. Riley had gotten one too. Just touching it, Sam could tell he'd need an extra dose of sedative that night.

 

"Well, what's in there? What's got you hesitating?" Steve must not have had any doubts about Stark's gift horse. He wasn't checking the teeth or anything as he popped open those cases. But, Sam's doubts weren't really about Stark's intentions. They were about his own.

 

"It's an exo suit. Flight gear."

 

Steve's face lit up. "Tony must want you on the team. Or at least as a retainer. That's great, Sam." He chuckled. "And you were just begging me a few weeks ago to put in a good word for you. Guess I didn't need to." He whistled and lifted a seriously impressive military grade long range rifle base out of the case. A recorded voice accompanied it.

 

_Steve, this is a favor for you. If you tell anyone I'm making weapons again, I'll personally ruin you in the media. Also, Pep says 'hi.'_

 

The smile that had been creeping wider on Steve's face reached a max as he assembled the rifle, shaking his head. "Stark, all bark and no bite. Criminey, this is serious." He held out the rifle to consider it. It was nearly as tall as he was. "So, Sam, what's got you stuck?"

 

What did have Sam stuck? The nightmares? The regret? The soul-crippling doubt? Like Steve just said, Sam had been begging weeks before to be considered to join the super team. But things had changed since then. He'd seen his limits, he'd been made to feel very, extremely human, and his impotence, his insignificance in the face of literal super humans was daunting. He was just a guy in the sky playing Icarus. He could brawl and shoot with the best of them, but not the superhuman best, just the human best. What good could he do on this team? What role would he play?

 

It wasn't his own mortality he feared. He'd come to terms with that long before. It was his limitations. If he couldn't save Riley when it was the two of them, exceptional humans in a human combat situation, what could he do to save his superhero friends in a superhuman situation? He'd just get them killed, making them save him or acting like a false source of security. His suit belonged, he didn't. It was a dream come true to be a friend of Captain America, but it would be a nightmare come true to be responsible for another respected friend's death.

 

At first, it had been a source of disappointment that Rumlow had knifed his gear and jammed the mechanisms. Sam had grumbled about being grounded and looked forward to asking _the_ Tony Stark to fix it. This brand new, unrequested exo suit would have sent him giddy before, before the nightmares started. Now it made him a little cold and sweaty, and reminded him of that crick in his neck. Now it made the nightmares feel like real possibilities. He couldn't watch Steve get shot over and over again, couldn't watch Nat not dodge that wall of fire fast enough, couldn't watch Buck's arm fail him against something much stronger. He couldn't watch these people die and be left up there as an aerial audience, helpless to help. Left with survivor's guilt again. He cared too much for them to waste their trust.

 

This was his demon. This was what kept him from sleeping, what made his head pound and mind reel. It wasn't his pride rejecting his inadequacy, not really. It was the reality of the situation and history repeating itself.

 

"Sam?" Steve's face was concerned. Sam must've taken too long considering. "You all right?"

 

Sam forced a scoff, grinned his pain away like the best of them. "Yeah, I'm good, man. Just thinking. This suit, Steve… Ha, I may be getting too old for this shit."

 

"Nonsense. I saw you using it on the helicarriers. You were sprightly." He smiled, unloading a frankly enormous assortment of small side arms and knives onto the ground after inspecting each. "So, what is it, really?"

 

"It's… it's…" Sam almost couldn't say it out loud, like that would tempt fate. He popped the case open to buy himself time. When he saw the rig inside, he nearly forgot all that uncertainty. It was a new model, completely upgraded and not the standard military neutral colors.

 

"Red." Steve had leaned over to inspect the contents. "It's snazzy. I like it. What's the problem?"

 

"It's Riley."

 

Steve sheathed the bone cutter he had been considering and moved to sit in front of Sam. "I thought Riley was part of the reason you had wanted to join before. Because you knew he'd appreciate it."

 

"Well, that's still true, but, Steve, I watched… I lived that once, which was one too many times for my liking. And that was war and we were the best. Period. If I do this, if I put the wings back on, I'll be just begging to watch it again and again with the only people I've found I could connect with since Riley. I'm a nobody. You put me up there, it won't be _like_ I'm just up there to watch y'all get hurt or worse, it _will_ be that I'm just up there to watch. I can't do anything to stop the shit y'all fight. I have no superpowers or super skills, and I'm not just being self-deprecating, I'm being logical. If you can't stop that shit, I certainly can't. I don't want to create some expectation of my ability to help that gets everybody else fucked over. I don't need to be any part of that." He pushed the case away. "I can stay back and cook y'all's victory dinners, but I don't belong watching your backs."

 

Steve had listened attentively, brow knitting higher and higher as Sam spoke. By the end, he looked like he understood and was hurting for it. With a big sigh, he climbed up off the ground to sit beside Sam at the table. "Listen, Sam. I hear you. I've been there, fearing for your friends as they lay their lives down, feeling responsible for the men you've lost. The thing is, you'll be working as part of a team. As much as it'll feel like it, none of us will lay any responsibility or blame on you individually. We know your strengths like you know ours, we know each other's limits too. We won't expect more of you than you can give, just like you wouldn't from us. And, as 'super' as we seem, every person could use another they trust to help out. And we're not as superhuman as you think. Stark's the tin man, man in a can, as he's said before. Natasha and Clint are experts in their skill sets, but they're not 'super' human. Sure, Thor's a demigod and Banner's… well, Banner's superhuman, but I'm just a little augmented. With your special skill sets you'll keep pace well, and most of all I think, and obviously Stark thinks, you'll be helpful." He picked up the suit's case that Sam had pushed away and set it back in front of him. "I understand your trepidation, and this is obviously still your choice, but… think it over. Please."

 

Damn, Steve was good at speeches. Sam chewed at the inside of his lip and stared at the red and white wing gear in front of him. They made his stomach turn for two completely opposite reasons. Steve went back to unloading his cases to give him time to think and Sam did just that, watching the arsenal being unloaded in their living room.

 

"Steve, man, what is all this for? You and Stark worried about something I should know about?"

 

"Oh, no. Nothing like that." He opened yet another case and cracked a huge grin. What he held up next was not weaponry. "That is _handsome_. No, Sam, we've decided that this time in deep cover doesn't need to be idle time. We can be training, _preparing the applicants_ , if you will."

 

Sam leaned forward and touched the fabric of the uniform Steve was laying out. It felt both like Body Armor and _body armor_ , soft yet hard. "New stars and stripes outfit?"

 

"Mm-hmm, busted up my old one." He grinned, folding up the uniform and snapping shut the case. "Just in case."

 

"Yeah, just in case…" The butterflies in Sam's gut were moving from anxious to excited. He wanted to try this suit on, despite everything else, he still _wanted_ that deep down. Heaving a sigh at his own predictability, he pulled the case closer to him and lifted the exo pack from its restraints. It was even lighter than his old version.

 

_Sam Wilson, Tony Stark here, but you knew that already. Saw you on the news. Needless to say I was impressed. I do love to see my toys well played with, so here's an upgraded set. Consider this an official invitation to apply to the world's most prestigious vigilante justice club. I look forward to your application and three glowing recommendation letters._

 

Steve was shaking his head as the message finished playback.

 

"He wasn't serious, was he?"

 

"About the application and letters of recommendation? No. The Avengers are more of an invitation join up. He's just letting you know you're being considered. That part he did mean. We've discussed it." He finished repacking all of his cases and gathered them up. "Ready to make lunch?"

 

Sam couldn't stop the grin on his face. "You've discussed it? You backing me?"

 

"Well, yeah. I need you watching me back, Sam." He clapped Sam's shoulder and then toted off the cases to his room. "So of course I've got yours."

 

Captain America needed his help. What better reason to get back in? He'd thought it before, said it before. It was still as relevant as before. And Steve was right, Riley would be all over this, and Sam would _not_ let what happened to Riley happen again. No more watching. Just avenging.

 

* * *

 

There was nothing quite like getting a few cases worth of weaponry to make a girl feel safer. Clint had arrived loaded down with gear, the old reliables, pistols, knifes, EMP discs, but also some new toys which Natasha was looking forward to testing out. He also came with his steady outlook and rationality. Natasha had no reason to be getting paranoid. Bucky was stable by all assessments and as to the other thing, the suspicion about things seeming to go too well, well, he straightened her out on that.

 

Things weren't going _too_ well. No, Natasha had her perspective a little skewed in that regard.

 

"Oh, Nat," he'd said, rolling his eyes and scratching at the bandage on his neck. "Things aren't great. Things are actually pretty shitty. You're stuck in deep cover, so you've forgotten that HYDRA is popping up like a bad case of herpes. Your day to day life is pretty bleak besides: last I saw you all were excited when Buchanan didn't kill the fire chief. No, we're not due for some more shit quite yet. It's just that things feel consistently manageable for once in a blue moon, so that makes you think it's too good to be true."

 

He'd given her the weapons restock then. "For training. I think everybody here needs to be at the top of their game."

 

"I agree," Maria had added, slipping inside her room. "With all that _domestic terrorism_ we're dealing with, everyone needs to be ready in case a cell pops up nearby or takes interest in the strangely heroic looking band of firefighters in town." She sat down beside them and lowered her voice. "They're looking for him."

 

"Intel from this last group makes it pretty clear they want their asset back."

 

Despite the heavy sound to Clint's voice, Natasha had actually been comforted by this. At least they knew that some things never changed. Some things were persistently predictable. HYDRA never fully died, its rats could swim and they'd chew holes in things just to do it. And more, they'd never just forget a project. Natasha could prepare for that.

 

"We'll prepare," she'd said, stowing the cases under her bed, "but we won't make it about defensive action. We'll make it about being a team. Barnes already knows he's being considered for the big leagues, Wilson will join in. For now, let's let these domestic terrorists remain just that. We don't want to poke the bear with the word HYRDA, yes?"

 

They had all agreed on that. And now, in the park, Natasha felt assured and relaxed. No more complacency. No more uncertainty. Just waiting and readying.

 

"There you are! We were wondering if you'd forgotten." Even her voice sounded better, calling out to Sam and Steve as they approached.

 

"We were almost here but then we had to go back." Sam set down his end of the ice chest and some plastic bags. " _Hal_ here forgot something."

 

Steve gave a sheepish smile through his Hal mask and pulled at the neck of his sweatshirt. "Heh, heh. Oops." They were lying, but for other people's benefit. Natasha knew that they had had their own packages from Stark to investigate. She wondered over the result of those.

 

"Well, you're here now. So, what's for lunch?" Natasha ducked the wild frisbee toss and reached for the ice chest, she could already smell something delicious wafting from it.

 

"Yeah, what's for lunch?" Clint jogged up, bringing with him the rest of their _regular_ frisbee players. Ultimate frisbee had been immediately abandoned when it became clear that Bucky's team had an unfair advantage and he simply refused _not_ to play. That was probably so he wouldn't be stuck on the side lines with Kate buzzing in his ear.

 

"Sam made Rueben sandwiches and potato salad."

 

A chorus of 'oh's and 'yum's followed and everyone converged on the ice chest. But not before Sam stepped in between them.

 

"But the food's all hot, so don't just open the cooler and leave it open. That'll let all the heat out. One at a time."

 

Bucky lingered near the back of the line as the rest fidgeted for lunch. He leaned next to Natasha at the other picnic table and held out his hands. He was ready to take Wobbles back. "You're in an alarmingly high-spirited mood," he commented, little quirk at the corner of his mouth. "Got news of another underground intelligence cell that you get to infiltrate and expose?"

 

Natasha allowed herself to laugh. "No. Just enjoying the company."

 

"You're an exceptional liar, Natasha, but that was bullshit."

 

"I know."

 

He snorted at her smirk. "I s'pose you'll fill us in when we need to be."

 

"You know me, James." She changed the subject, his little grins were getting too self-satisfied. "You enjoying the company?"

 

"For the most part," he shook his head and kicked away from the table. "I can take care of myself with the rest." He'd fielded her little dig well. Sure, at first it had seemed that Bucky couldn't handle Kate's forwardness, but that was the shock of the moment. Once outside of the apartment, he'd surpassed what Natasha had expected.

 

When avoiding her outright didn't work, Bucky had tried talking with other people to soften the intensity of Kate's attempts. When he couldn't do that he didn't exactly ignore her, but he deflected her conversation topics to more neutral ones. It was actually pretty impressive. As was his patience.

 

Just then, his short respite from her, taken up by Kate's reversion to tagging along with Clint and making fun of him, ended when she joined him at the table where he'd sat with Steve, Sam and Sharon. Sam slipped from his seat and switched over to where Hill was sitting, apparently not trusting himself to not make the situation worse. Clint leaned against the table beside Natasha as the hunt resumed.

 

"She will not take a hint. Or a flat out rejection." He had sauerkraut on his collar. Natasha left it. "And I told her to stop earlier. She told me I was stupid."

 

"Well…"

 

Clint scoffed, shook his. "Let's not start with that, huh? Aren't you gonna eat?"

 

"Yeah. Just want to watch how this is going to unfold. Go on, sit. I'll join you in a bit."

 

Shrugging he half-limped over to where Sam and Hill sat. That hit he'd taken from Bucky had apparently hurt worse than he'd admitted before.

 

Back at the other table, Bucky was eating without breathing, either to avoid talking or to enable a quicker escape, maybe both. Steve, unsettled and uncomfortable with the situation around him, had pulled out a sketchbook and was chatting with Sharon as he drew. Kate just kept going, coming on strong.

 

"…back to New York, I can show you around. A lot's probably different from when you were last there and I know the best spots. You're, like, extremely good-looking so I bet you won't have any trouble with being bored on a Friday night, but I'll be available." She had a hand on his thigh. Thank goodness no one but Natasha could see that. Steve would have blushed to death. As she ran her hand upwards, Bucky set aside his empty sandwich wrappings and turned to face her. For a second, Natasha was worried he would hurt or, and then, for a longer second, she was worried he was about to kiss her.

 

"Oh, yeah? You're always available on a Friday night? Or you'll make yourself available if I ask?" He was leaning into her personal space, a grin on his face that Natasha recognized, and his hand was now on her knee. He'd switched it around on her.

 

Smart, Natasha found herself thinking, make her taste her own medicine, scare her off by being so intense. His hand moved a little up her leg. Natasha couldn't see Kate's face, but she could see Steve's and Sharon's, and they looked appropriately shocked.

 

"You know, it's been a long time since I took a gal out, but I imagine you'd make it _worth_ my while. Wouldn't you, Katie?" The added wink was especially unsettling. "You can do more with that mouth than just talk, can't you?"

 

Steve actually gasped, but Bucky didn't stop.

 

"Because you sure can run it, talk a big game. Can you follow through? I'm a lot older than you, Katie, I've seen some things, I _know_ some things. If it turns out you're all talk, I might be disappointed. But then again, I might enjoy showing you a good time. No better time to learn than the present, huh?"

 

He was fully in her space now. It had become obvious even to Natasha a few meters away that she was so much smaller than him. She had actually had to lean away to still look into his face. There was a pause, with Bucky grinning his now unsettling smirk, as he waited for Kate's response. Everyone in their group was now paying attention, listening for the outcome.

 

"Hell, yeah! That's what I'm talking about." Kate set down her sandwich and reached for Bucky's collar, only to immediately drop her hands. Apparently she found his laughter confusing.

 

And he was really laughing. Had sat back and was wiping tears from his eyes.

 

"Wh--why are you laughing?" Oh, poor Kate. "What's funny?"

 

"Oh, creezus. Kate, that didn't even make you blink, did it? So much for scaring you straight."

 

"Scaring me straight? You were pretending that?"

 

Bucky laughed weakly again and then squared up to face her, so like Steve when he was about to say something serious… or perhaps, Steve was like him. "Look, Kate, you're a sweet kid, and talented and smart, I'm sure, and pretty, but I'm not the right age for you, kiddo. And you don't want any of this mess. I'm all trouble."

 

"I like trouble." Natasha could just hear the look Kate was sure to be wearing, kittenish and challenging.

 

Bucky laughed again and everyone could see Kate's ego take a hit. "I bet you think you do, but no. I was like you once, then I saw real trouble. You don't want any part of that, or me, kid. Stick to your own age bracket, alright? Don't get yourself hurt." He stood and, making Natasha cringe, rumpled Kate's hair as he walked away to toss out his trash. It was by Natasha that he stopped next.

 

"That was a bit condescending, don't you think, James?"

 

"Oh, definitely. I'm sorry for hurting her feelings, but she's just got to stop. It's driving me up the wall." He smooth his hair back off his forehead, an old habit not yet dropped from when his hair was much longer. "She almost groped me just then."

 

"Almost? Looked pretty gropey from over here."  

Bucky smirked. "You noticed that, huh? Thanks for helping me out. But, no, I mean she almost _really_ groped me. I think she was going to go all the way if I didn't stop her. She was out of control."

 

"Well, I'm glad you avoided making a _scene_." Natasha rolled her eyes and grabbed her lunch, now cold, from the chest and went to join Clint at his table. Kate appeared beside her shortly after.

 

"Does he think I'm a child?"

 

Natasha sighed. There was no stopping it. She hadn't even had the chance to take a single bite. "You are significantly younger than him, Bishop."

 

"I am old enough. He's what? Thirty something?"

 

"Try ninety something," Hill chimed in.

 

"Yeah, but, he hasn't lived that whole time. He's thirty something. That's not _that_ much older."

 

"But it is older and he's lived a completely different life than you, in a different time. He just needs somebody more age appropriate, more worldly, for the place he's at in life." Natasha smiled her support and then, finally, started in on her sandwich. It was delicious, even cold.

 

"You're too green, Kate," Sam added, probably not helpfully.

 

"Oh, I'm too green? I'm too young and inexperienced, huh? Well, fine. I'll do age appropriate. I'll show him I'm not some kid." She stood abruptly and, taking one of the blankets, marched towards the edge of the field and sat, petulantly, by herself. "Lucky!" Well, with the dog.

 

"Nice going, Sam," Hill crooned.

 

"Yes, very tactful."

 

"What? She wasn't clear on the bottom line, even after you explained. Somebody had to spell it out."

 

"It's fine, Sam." Clint had turned to the side and was lying down on the bench. Natasha had thought he'd slept through the whole thing. "She gets a big head sometimes, needs to be knocked down a peg or two."

 

"Or eight…" Natasha mumbled. This didn't feel like a solution. Kate seemed like the type that would take this as an affront and would respond aggressively, or passive-aggressively. She was just bundled up over there beside the field plotting her revenge.

 

Meanwhile, with things quieted down, Steve returned to showing Sharon his sketches. Or, he was trying to return to it. Buck was making that difficult.

 

"I actually have a few that I'd like to give to you, to take to your aunt. Uh, I was hoping that maybe some renderings of old times might help Peggy remember. If not, maybe she'll at least enjoy them."

 

Sharon carefully accepted the stack that Steve had separated out earlier and began looking through it. "Sure, Steve. I'm sure Aunt Peggy would really like these. Oh, that's stunning. Is this her, during the war?"

 

"At Camp Lehigh, yes. The day I first saw her." Steve tried to devote his full attention to explaining the drawings, but he kept noticing Bucky glancing over his shoulder.  

"And this must be General Phillips. She used to tell me about him and Howard Stark when I came to visit when I was younger. He was a grizzly man, wasn't he?"  

"Yes, yes he was." No, Bucky wasn't just looking over his shoulder. He was looking over his shoulder at Kate. Steve shook his head. "He was a hard man, but a good one. Hold on a second, Sharon. Buck."

 

"What?!" He turned around quickly, like a kid caught in the cookie jar. "What, Steve?"

 

"You feel bad, don't you? For being so harsh to her."

 

"You mean about being a dick to her? … Yes. I'm an asshole and she's just an eager girl."

 

"I think she's older than you think she is," Sharon commented offhand and picked out another drawing. "Oh, are these the Alps?"

 

"On the Italian side, yes ma'am." Steve shrugged at Bucky and returned to the sketches. He didn't know how to help him out with this one. But then, all of a sudden, Kate was back, and she was acting like nothing had happened.

 

"Hey, do you guys know if there's a public bathroom around here? I need to visit the little girls' room."

 

"I don't think there is one, but it's probably about time we head back to the apartment. Wobbles is shivering." Bucky stood and started cleaning things up, the rest joining in, including Kate with a smile on her face.

 

Just before they too joined in, Sharon chuckled beside Steve and murmured, "you catch more flies with honey. Subtle, Kate. Good job."

 

* * *

 

Having double the normal amount of people in the apartment meant some adjustments had to be made. Meal preparations took twice as much time. Extra places had to be laid out for people to eat at who didn't fit at the dinner table. They quickly learned they didn't have enough dinnerware. Bathroom availability became very hit or miss. Just the sheer stretch to their resources manifested very quickly. But other things had to change as well.

 

Their routine had been the first victim that morning, with yoga replaced by Project Spic n Span. That afternoon, the rest came under threat as well. Even though their guests were completely capable of taking care of and entertaining themselves, it was agreed that it would be rude for Steve and Bucky to spend two and a half hours training in the basement. So sparing time was cut in half. And no chores or errands of any sort were run that day, those had already been rushed that morning. This meant a lot of time with all eight of them milling around together in the common area.

 

That was fine as well, as was the dismissal of the evening run due to the wind picking up to gale force. Steve and Bucky had thought that they could manage it, but Natasha pointed out that them being able to do so might just expose them. Or the wind could blow Steve's face off. So that was scrapped as well. And then the dinner debacle happened. Sam been planning as usual to cook. He had Bucky and plenty of other helpers to get the job done. Notionally, there was no reason to change this. But then Sharon and Maria had insisted on cooking, to pull their weight around there at least once while they were freeloading. And that was fine, great, very polite of them. They even wrangled Kate into it so that they were taking care of things on their own. The problem was, their concept of dinnertime was a lot different from the gang's concept.

 

It was well past sunset when they finally got _started_ started on cooking.

 

"No, no, no. Put the oil in the pan _then_ heat it up. Yeah, good. Good. That's enough!"

 

Sam could feel his shoulders tensing, but there was nothing he could do about it. Sharon was the only one in his kitchen who knew what she was doing it sounded like. The other two might blow them all up. "Y'all need help in there?"

 

"No, Sam, thanks! We've got this."

 

They were making a vat of butternut squash soup. How bad could they screw it up? Sam's mind was suddenly filled with images of fallout zones and desiccated buildings.

 

"Just sit down, Sam." Steve to the rescue! "They'll be fine."

 

Sam sat as directed, in between Steve and Buck at the table. Buck, looking to be bored out of his mind, had Wobbles on his lap, and one ear in his headphones, staring off into space. Steve was sketching. Sam leaned over, found the three ladies in the kitchen were his studies, and laughed a little at how well he'd captured their energies.

 

"Hey, you know, I have presents for you all too. Forgot that." Clint stood from his domino game with Nat, the lawn chair he was sitting in collapsing as he left it. "Be right back."

 

"How much stuff did he bring?"

 

Nat shrugged, laid down a tile. "Who ever really knows?"

 

But when Clint reappeared from Nat's room, it wasn't with a big duffle, or an armored suit case. He was carrying a knapsack. "Okay, a few little things I heard mention of being lacking. One premier artist's colored pencil set, forty-eight count. Two pairs straight knitting needles, aluminum 7. And… a shit ton of yarn." He dumped the rest of the knapsack out on the table, sending balls of yarn rolling in different directions. "Here, Buchanan, knitting needles. Sam."

 

"Thank, Clinton."

 

"Great."

 

"Thanks," Steve said, immediately opening the tin of pencils. "These are really nice, Clint."

 

"Not a problem. I just requisitioned all this stuff."

 

"Meaning, he stole it," Nat added drily and placed an answering move to Clint's.

 

Sam turned the needles over in his hands. It had been a while since he handled one and his Mams' were never metal. But, looking over at Buck, he decided anything more delicate than metal would have been too delicate, especially if he got frustrated. Buck was turning his over, getting the feel of them too.

 

"Gee, you all must really trust me now, handing over deadly weapons like this to me."

 

Sam chuckled to himself, remembering the exact discussion he and Nat had had what felt like years ago about this very issue.

 

"If you think this is an act of trust, just wait until you see what we're doing tomorrow." Nat flipped a tile between her fingers. "You'll think we've forgotten you tried to kill us recently."

 

Her tone didn't faze Buck at all. He tested the balance of a needle and asked, "and what is that?"

 

"Big group outing planned," Clint answered. "Lotsa toys, lotsa fun. Or danger. Depends on how you define things…"

 

Sam shuddered to think what that meant, but then again, it sounded pretty damn exciting. Buck seemed to have the same reaction: something in between concern and anticipation. After a check of Steve's reaction, though, Sam was no step closer to knowing which was the appropriate response. His face was a wall, turned towards the portrait now coming even more to life with color. Oh, well. Time to teach Buck to knit.

 

"Okay, Buck, first thing's first: you gotta tie yourself a slip knot. Come on let's start with the black yarn. It'll show less mistakes."

 

About a quarter hour later, Buck had himself a fine rhythm with his stitches and the agents in the kitchen had ruined a perfectly good batch of stock.

 

"No! Oh, no. No, I told you to clean the squash." Sharon's voice was even but about three times louder than normal.

 

Sam looked up, fearing the worse. Sure enough, a whole squash sat melting in the stew pot.

 

"I washed it. Isn't that… cleaning it?" Maria pulled at one of her ears and bit her lip. She'd done fucked it all up.

 

Sharon grabbed the squash from the pot and tossed it, steaming onto the counter. It cracked and splattered everywhere. It's guts and seeds, partially liquefied, came leaking out with a hiss. Shaking out her surely burnt hand, Sharon returned to inspect the stock she'd been working on. Sam bet she was cursing taking a few minutes to answer that phone call.

 

"No, when you clean a squash, or a pumpkin or anything like that, you have to take out its seeds and stringy membranes. Also, take the skin off. And not boil it and the _stem and roots_ off in the water."

 

"I told ya," Kate quipped on the other side of Maria, chopping up potatoes.

 

"Oh… damn."

 

"Don't worry about it, Hill. Last time I tried to cook, I almost cracked Bucky's tooth with a pancake."

 

"S'true," Buck corroborated, tongue out between his lips as he concentrated. His stomach seemed to answer, growling and making Wobbles whimper a little. "Shh, you're fine… guess we're not eating dinner tonight, huh?"

 

Sam closed his stitch and set the needles on the table. "Probably not. Unless they can find a way to salvage this."

 

"The entire dietary spectrum of needs can be met simply by eating butter and potatoes," Clint informed them, staring at the tangle of dominoes on the table like he could read its secrets. "I'm good eating just that tonight."

 

"Kate Bishop to the rescue!" She sounded really proud of herself. Sam just hoped she'd boiled enough.

 

After their very interesting meal of boiled potatoes and butter, the whole group of them were listlessly watching television, kicked up where ever they could find somewhere to sit. Steve was content to stay at the table and to continue bringing his sketches into full Technicolor. Bucky too had stayed, adding line after line to his… well, whatever it was that Sam was teaching him to knit. For now it was just a rectangle of black yarn loops, but Buck seemed invested in it. And Steve had to admit, he found the clacking of the needles soothing. Wobbles had already nodded off to them in her little bed at their feet. Despite the place being full to capacity, it was quite peaceful just then.

 

"Steve. _Steve_." When he looked up, he found Bucky had the biggest, most child-like smile on his face. "It's fucking snowing."

 

Sure enough, in the soft yellow light of the street lights outside the window Steve could see a flurry of snowflakes floating into and out of sight. It was snowing. Bucky made it to the window surprisingly quickly, knitting tools forgotten in his left hand and ball of yarn unspooling behind him. Steve joined him, rerolling the yarn ball as he went. It was a light snow and it was only just at freezing outside, so it wasn't sticking, but it was beautiful.

 

"I'm going out in it." Bucky marched back to the table and set aside his knitting, exchanging it for his sweatshirt and a pair of boots.

 

Steve followed him with a tired grin. Yes, he would come out with him, just like the old days. Bucky always went out to enjoy the first snowfall. And Steve always came with him, even that one winter when his asthma almost killed him. Natasha caught his eye as he was putting on a pair of socks, today a gift from Banner from abroad, hand knitted and dyed in exotic colors. She was entangled in a sea of legs and sleeping faces. Somehow Lucky had made it onto the couch, and around him Kate had fallen asleep, feet over Natasha's lap. Clint was on Nat's other side, arm slung around her shoulders and head thrown back as he snored quietly. She was in a Hawkeye sandwich. She shrugged and grinned a little, nodding to where Bucky was waiting. She'd hold down the fort, he should go. Steve nodded, gave a little wave to Sam and Sharon, playing a quiet game of cards with Maria, and hurried to the window.

 

"Put this on." Bucky shoved a cap down over Steve's ears and then pulled on his own. He made sure Wobbles was still fast asleep in her pup bed and then swung open the window and jumped out.

 

Steve followed quickly, pulling the window to before letting himself drop to the next ledge then the porch overhang. It was actually warmer out there than he expected, the wind having died down and the snow creating a kind of blanketing effect as it fell. Buck splayed out immediately, left arm behind his head, right palm stretched out to catch the snowflakes. He watched the flakes float above them, the clouds scurry across the sky, the moon, Steve couldn't quite tell, only that he was immersed.

 

"This is nice. This is peaceful," he declared finally.

 

"There are a lot of people inside, aren't there?"

 

"More than I'm used to."

 

"Are you doing okay with that, Buck?"

 

He turned his head, smirk almost pulling the peace from his expression. "You worried?"

 

"Yeah," Steve admitted. "It's a change. You've only dealt with so many so far, It could go either way."

 

Bucky turned back to gazing at the sky. "Yeah, I'm doing fine. Better than I expected, to be honest. I like them all, for the most part."

 

"For the most part," Steve echoed, allowing the humor to creep into that statement.

 

"Yeah. For the most part." He swiped the wool cap off his head and used it as a pillow, closing his eyes as the snowflakes settled on his face and melted. Within a few minutes time he had little smatterings of half melted snow in his hair and on his left arm.

 

In the silence, the pleasant coolness, Steve felt himself drifting off to sleep a few times. It was the third spell of that that Bucky woke him from. "So… that's Sharon… huh?"

 

"Yeah," Steve hesitated to add any more to that answer, to read any more into Buck's question. "That's Sharon."

 

Bucky was looking at him out of the corner of his eye. "What a detailed response."

 

"Yep," Steve laughed. "What do you think of her?"

 

"I like her, Steve." He sat up and slid back so he leaned against the building. "She's Peggy's niece. You never mentioned that."

 

"Yeah… It seemed… unrelated."

 

"Well, that's an interesting way to look at it. Seems pretty damn related to me, but that's your thing. I suppose you said you met her while she was undercover, so you didn't know she was Peggy's relative."

 

"No, I didn't. She was just the nice, friendly neighbor woman who I asked to coffee. And who I didn't know was guarding me courtesy of S.H.I.E.L.D. and Nick Fury. Now that I know she's Peggy's niece it just seems…"

 

"Meant to be? I know you were going to say that, you sap. Don't deny it."

 

"Yeah, meant to be, that we get to know each other."

 

"You have some common ground, I'll give you that."

 

"Yes, and she's… pleasant to be around."

 

"She _is_ attractive and smart and engaging. You're right."

 

"So you approve?"

 

Bucky scoffed, "as if it would matter if I didn't. But yeah, whole hog, Steve. Go get her."

 

"Actually it would," Steve muttered, mostly to himself, and then decided to change the subject. "Speaking of going and getting. What were you thinking today?"

 

Buck sighed, pulling his cap on and down over his eyes. "I don't know. She was making me crazy. And on her way to feeling up the family jewels. I had to do something."

 

Steve blinked in surprise at that piece of news. "She was _touching_ you?"

 

"Uh, yeah, in a very private area, well, a not _age-appropriate_ area." Steve could hear the old grin in Bucky's voice.

 

"And what happened afterwards, when you felt bad?"

 

"Well, hell, I felt bad about hurting her feelings. That seems pretty self-explanatory. I don't think she's… trying to irritate me. But she's everywhere, I can't turn the corner without her being there and her level of enthusiasm, eagerness, daring, whatever you want to call it is hard to process. And… and…"

 

"She's growing on you, isn't she?"

 

"No," he snapped, and then growled. "Goddamnit, yes. It makes me feel creepy."

 

"Well, she does have her own sort of charm about her. And she has, uh, a real thing for you."

 

That was answered by a loud, exasperated sigh. Bucky pulled at his chin a little. "I, yeah. I gotta admit, it's nice to have someone interested again. Makes me feel more like myself. But it's still creepy. She's _so_ young. I could literally be her grandfather. That said, the attention's… pleasant." He chuckled a little. "Haven't been groped like that in a long time."

 

Steve scoffed. "Tasteful, Buck."

 

"Oh, well, you know, I'm just trying to put a positive spin on it. I'm trying to be optimistic, like you, Steve. Don't you want me to look on the bright side?"

 

"Shut up."

 

Bucky laughed and shook the snow off his left arm. "Impossible to please, you are. Hey, gotta know. What's in those cases Barton brought for you?"

 

"Some supplies, fresh uniform, arms. Just in case."

 

"Hmm. A Stark care package. Makes sense. So, do you know what this group outing is that we're going on tomorrow?"

 

"No. They're not sharing. I just know we're leaving as soon as our shift is over."

 

"Hmph. Sounds suspicious as fuck. I hate the being kept in the dark shit."

 

"I know you do, Buck, but this time I really believe it's just for the sake of surprise. I trust Natasha and Clint… what in the _world_ …" As he was speaking the front door of their building had clattered open, letting light spill out and revealing someone strutting out and down the drive.

 

"Is that… _Kate_?"

 

Steve was as surprised as Bucky. She did _not_ look like she had earlier in her jeans and sweatshirt. Now she wearing something much different, much more _adult_. "I can see almost her entire back," Steve whispered. "Isn't she cold?"

 

"How is she walking in those heels? She looks like a street walker."

 

"Buck."

 

"Well? What is she doing?"

At about the same time they both stood and clambered to the edge of the overhang. "Where're _you_ going?" They called out together.

 

Kate spun on the spot, hands on her hips. They could somehow see her eyes roll even in the low light. "You guys sound just like Clint! I'm going out, _hunting_. This is a college town. It's _age appropriate_ or whatever!"

 

"Well, be safe!" They called out, each in some variation to her back as she strutted off down the sidewalk and towards campus.

 

" _Now_ how old do you think she is?"

 

Bucky sighed, sliding down the wall and onto his heels. "Shit, I don't know… Shit. … It's a good thing I can't get drunk anymore."

 

A story and a half above them, Natasha and Clint stood huddled under blankets in front of the cracked open window. Their intention had been to get Steve and Bucky to stop Kate, but instead they'd overheard the last part of their conversation about her and watched the exchange between all three. Now neither of them seemed capable of reacting. Natasha at least had been completely taken off guard by Bucky's comments. The look on Clint's face indicated likewise.

 

"Jealous?"

 

"Jeal-- ha." Clint scratched his head when she asked before him. "No. She's just like a sister to me."  

 

"And… Bucky's just like a brother to me…"

 

There was a strained moment between the two of them.

 

"No, it's too weird."

 

"Yeah, it's weird. Let's go…"

 

"Do something else… yeah."

 

Further back, in the warmth and friendly light of the apartment, Sam and Maria sat, playing a game of mindless card jousting. Sharon had already retired to shower and get ready to turn in, leaving them without enough people to finish their game of Bullshit. They had been the ones to wake Kate and Clint almost a half hour before, so maybe it was good that they'd stopped.  

Both he and Maria had seen the awkwardness go down between Clint and Nat, but there was no telling the source of it back there. Then it dawned on Sam, he could finally get a second opinion on the Nat and Clint thing from someone who might actually know.

 

"So, what's the story on them?" He asked, nodding towards where the two of them were competitively reassembling guns.

 

Maria looked up and snickered. "That is the question, isn't it? You never know with Barton and Romanoff."

 

"Damn," Sam clicked his tongue in disappointment. "I was hoping you'd finally settle the debate for us. I've been wondering."

 

"Yes, so have we all."

 

"'Cause she wears that arrow 'round her neck, makes it seem--"

 

"But then nothing ever happens, not observably. I know." Maria offered a shrug and grin and then returned to flipping cards over.

 

Sam grinned at that too. It was nice to have a kindred spirit in his tireless effort at decoding the Nat-Clint dynamic. Very nice to have a witty, interesting, hot, kindred spirit. "So, what about you? You have someone the whole of S.H.I.E.L.D was always guessing about your relationship status with?"

 

"Hah, uh, no. Unless I can be in a complicated relationship with my work."

 

"Well, you know, Stark invited me to sign on… you're working with his company now, right? Maybe we can perplex everyone else around with our flirtatious antics to rival Nat and Clint."

 

"Ah, the antics… so tempting, but probably not."

 

"Oh? Well, I don't need mystery if--"

 

Maria winced and laid her cards down. "No, I meant probably not because you're not really my type, Sam. But, that was a solid approach, and really, I'm flattered… but… yeah, not my type." She returned to flipping her cards over his.

 

"But… but you… you picked _me_. I thought--"

 

"Aw, the puppy dog's a good act on you, Wilson, but… really, it's got nothing to do with you. Don't take it personally. I picked you because you're a normal person, and you're fun to be around. There's no baggage like the defrosted cave twins. Still not my type though," she repeated when he made to talk again. Her eyes darted behind him and Sam followed, finding Natasha.

 

He smiled sympathetically once he had caught up. "Oh. _Oh_ , do I _feel_ you there. No luck, huh?"

 

Maria sighed lightly. "No, not recently. Speaking of, do you have any idea where Kate was heading off to? She just darted out of here."

 

"Besides her one track plot for Buck-domination, I'm not exactly sure I _know_ what's going on in that kid's head. So, no."

 

"Let's hope that she takes rejection gracefully and doesn't use this as an opportunity to show Barnes just how wrong he is. That could be a disaster."

 

"Yeah, let's hope."

 

* * *

 

 

"For god's sake, Tasha, it's friggin… it's friggin six in the morning!" Clint pulled a pillow over his head and sunk deeper into his pallet bed.

 

"Exactly! I let us sleep in. Now get up!" Grabbing the edge of his bottom sheet, Natasha pulled hard and sent Clint toppling onto the floor with a clump and a groan.

 

"Aw… floor. So cold." Despite the complained of temperature, he made no attempt to move from the floor.

 

Meanwhile, Sam continued snoring peacefully across the room. Natasha hopped around Clint's pallet and toed him in the ribs. He'd already fallen back to sleep.

 

"Up!"

 

"I hate you."

 

"No, you don't. Now, stop sniveling and get up. We have things to do."

 

Grumbling and yawning, Clint finally found his feet. He threw blankets and bedclothes onto the pallet and then hopped around, trying to pull on socks and a hoodie. "I do hate you a little," he grumbled, finally dressed and more conscious than not. "And why does he get to keep sleeping?"

 

"Because he's not you. Come on."

 

Out front, more evidence was compiled about everyone's preferred sleeping habits. For instance, Hill and Sharon were already up and dressed, both agents with early-rising down pat. Steve and Bucky were up as well, Steve as awake and as engaged as the ladies, dressed and ready to start the day. But Bucky, while he was awake, was not that _awake_ yet. He sat on the window bench, Wobbles against his chest, in a strange combination of sleep and workout attire. His hair was laughable and every four seconds he yawned, but he was up, watching the sun rise. Kate, on the extreme other hand, who had taken the other pull out couch pallet opposite Sharon, was still dead to the world, face down in her pillow, blankets a disaster zone and hair a matted rat's nest. Clint looked over in her direction longingly and sighed.

 

"Me too, Katie," he grumbled and shuffled past. "Me too."

 

"There's already a pot of coffee made," Natasha mentioned, and pushed Clint in its direction.

 

"I hate you a little less."

 

Natasha shook her head and joined Sharon and Hill at the island where they were comparing notes. Getting a look at the documents, Natasha found they were recipes. Pie recipes. "Discussing baking plans for Thursday?" She asked, taking the coffee pot from Clint and pouring two cups of it.

 

"For tomorrow, actually." Sharon handed Natasha a few sheets. "Some pies are better when you bake them the day before anyways, but also with all the other side dishes that have to be fixed Thursday morning there won't be an opportunity to bake these the day of as well. What do you think? Apple or pecan? We're obviously making pumpkin, but we can't decide between the second."

 

"Why not just make all of them?" Clint asked, knuckling an eye so hard Natasha was surprised it didn't pop.

 

"That was what I suggested," Steve chimed in from the dining room table. He folded the newspaper he was reading and leaned back so he could see them all. "And I was apparently wrong."

 

"We can't make _three_ pies. That's too many pies."

 

"No, it's not," Clint snorted and shook his head, taking his coffee to join Steve at the table. "Never too many pies."

 

"It's too much work," Hill added. "Especially pecan pie. That's why I'm voting apple."

 

"And let me guess, you're voting pecan, Sharon." Natasha received a solemn nod. "Alright, let's see…" Recipes were nonsense to her. Natasha didn't have the stuff for baking, she was just staring at gibberish. "Well, I got nothing. I like both, actually. I'm in the three pie camp. Sorry."

 

Sharon sighed. "Yes, I guess you're right. It is a big group."

 

"And you haven't met the Chief."

 

"Steve's right. You haven't met the Chief. It may be safer to make four pies."

 

"Oh, oh, if we're making four pies, can I suggest chocolate? Who doesn't love a chocolate pie?"

 

"Mmm, I second that. Let's make four." Sharon stared dully at Natasha. It was possible to feel her disappointment at this point. "Don't worry. You'll have help. We'll make it a group activity."

 

"Alright," she sighed. "Four pies it is." The recipes stacked together with a sharp tap against the counter. "So, what's on the agenda for today? And what's for breakfast?"

 

"Well, to answer both of those questions we really need the whole of our group conscious and together. Who wants to wake them?"

 

Steve volunteered to retrieve Sam and Sharon dared the adventure that was waking Kate. By the time she was finally conscious, it became very clear that her outing the night before had been eventful. Shuffling to the dining room table, she was a masterpiece of rumpled clothing, torn stockings and smeared eye make-up.

 

"Aw, Katie, you managed to make me look good this morning. Thanks." Clint handed her a cup of coffee and leaned out of the way of her left hook. "I see you acted in a mature and responsible manner last night."

 

"Shaddup, Clint."

 

"Yeah, you have no room to talk." Natasha passed a few ibuprofen and glass of water Kate's way. "If I'm not mistaken, within the last month you nearly gave yourself alcohol poisoning and fell asleep in your own vomit in the middle of a national park. And that was all to finish a prank you planned out of petulance at being left out here."

 

"Yeah. Now who's not mature and responsible?"

 

"Did ya have fun, Kate?" Sam asked with a smile that said he knew the answer already.

 

"Yes. Thanks for asking."

 

Steve cleared his throat. "You've got something… right… there." He waved over the entirety of the top of Kate's face. She wiped at her eyes, only making things worse.

 

"Got it?"

 

"Uh… well..." He was just about to say something, but Kate's attention was elsewhere.

 

Bucky had finally woken enough to join the conversation, or the sunrise was over, and was making his way to the table. Still emerging from the murk of drowsiness he hadn't really noticed what was happening at the table, not until he saw everyone. He took one look at Kate and his eyebrows rocketed to his hairline, mouth dropping open a little.

 

"You… had fun last night, I see," he finally managed. Clint scoffed as did Hill and Sam. Sharon and Steve seemed to be sharing the same reactions that morning, wincing a bit almost in unison.

 

Kate, continuing her downward slide on the gradient of mature and responsible reactions, scoffed as well and answered sarcasm with sarcasm. "More fun than you. Nice hair."

 

Bucky blinked and dropped his hand from his eye, clearly changing his mind from trying to tell her what Steve had started to. Instead he gave Steve a loaded look and pulled up a chair beside him. "Well, _you_ look _great_."

 

"I know." Kate crossed her arms, but turned away, facing Natasha and Sharon with a grimace. She realized the folly of her bravado a little too late. "I look like hell, don't I?" She whispered.

 

"You didn't take your makeup off before you passed out this morning," Sharon helpfully informed her.

 

Kate groaned, turning back to face plant on the table. "I'm such an ass…"

 

"My protégé," Clint said warmly and looked around the table. "Wasn't there talk of breakfast?"

 

* * *

 

 

"How long is this drive again?" Sam asked, hoping his voice would carry over the conversation happening on the bench in front of him all the way to the driver's seat.

 

Steve answered instead, right next to him. "Just under an hour."

 

"And where're we heading?" The sheer amount of fire power in the vehicle around him made him a little nervous. Not knowing where they were taking this shit and why made him a whole lotta nervous.  

"The number of times you ask that question isn't going to change their response," Buck grumbled behind him. He was in the trunk of the SUV essentially. Sitting on the ice chest with Wobbles and keeping Lucky company allowed him to be as far as possible from Kate and the intense awkwardness she had created between them earlier that day. So he'd opted for it immediately.

 

"It's a surprise, Sam. You tend not to reveal the details of surprises beforehand. It ruins them."

 

"Thanks, Captain Obvious," Sam muttered and scooted the box of hand grenades from beside his foot. "I just don't think surprises and a garrison's arsenal go hand in hand very well. Or, not comfortably."

 

"Stop worrying, Sam. It'll be a good surprise, I'm sure."

 

Sam wasn't so sure, but he held his tongue after that. He'd said his piece and that was all he could do. Instead, he listened into the conversation the ladies were having in the seats in front of them.

 

"…know what she was thinking but she had a futzin bazooka. Like, we were inside a bank. Ain't no way in hell that was gonna work and _not_ kill her too."

 

"You know, I think I know when she stole that. There was an incident report last month on armed stores. A bazooka was missing."

 

"What the eff do the CIA need a bazooka for?"

 

"Apparently, for providing work for masked vigilantes."

 

"Please, Maria, as if this couldn't have just as easily happened at Stark Industries."

 

"I don't know, Stark is an asshat most of the time, but he knows about keeping security up to par. Now, at least."

 

Kate scoffed. "Well, anyone who keeps moles out of their organization looks good on the security front after what's happened with HYDRA. That shit's everywher--"

 

"Kate! Ix-nay on the ydra-hay."

 

"History lesson for you, Clint," Buck was now leaning over the seat between Steve and Sam, "Pig Latin was popular when Steve and I were boys. Now, what's this about HYDRA being everywhere?"

 

The car fell suddenly and uncomfortably silent.

 

Steve cleared his throat. "We're not oblivious, everyone. We know that things didn't just clear up when Nat exposed HYDRA inside S.H.I.E.L.D.. You can tell us what's going on. Is there a splinter group causing trouble somewhere?"

 

"Pssh, try eighty splinter groups going nutso 'cross the nati-- ouch!" A shoe had collided with Kate's face.

 

"Do you not listen at all?!" Clint actually looked wound up. "This is why I can't take you places."

 

"Well, Dumbo, cat's kinda already outta the bag. Actin all hush hush about it 'sonly gonna make them more suspicious." She chunked the shoe into the side of Clint's head, achieving a kind of sickening smack.

 

"Aww, shoe…" Not Clint's head, but the sole of his shoe had split.

 

"Natasha… what's going on?" Steve had his warning voice on. "I expected more of you in this arrangement."

 

"Come on, Steve. You really surprised a spy's been lying?"

 

Sam could see Nat rolling her eyes in the rear view mirror. "Not lying per se… just not telling you everything."

 

Buck laughed as Steve sighed his disappointment. "Semantics," Buck said bitterly and sat back down on the ice chest. "But what did we expect? She wasn't gonna tell us we'd kicked a whole wasp's nest open when we were just tryin' to recover from one sting. I wasn't in any shape to do anything about it, and, frankly, neither were you Steve, not while you were worrying about me."

 

"Precisely," Nat said, relief palpable in her voice.

 

"Oh, please, Tasha. You're not absolved of guilt in this. We've been fine for some time now. And even before that, we deserved to know, not be kept in the dark because you determined that was best for us. Do you not remember my whole struggle with volition? How is this any different?"

 

"James… this was for your own benefit. We have things covered and I just didn't want you carrying more guilt than you were already dealing with--"

 

"He's right, Natasha." Steve sounded outright disappointed. "There's a very fine line between helping and hurting when it comes to censoring and I think you might have crossed in the wrong direction."

 

"But, Bucky just said you weren't in any shape to--"

 

"To _do_ anything about it. We could have still known without going out and doing something about it."

 

Nat looked back in her mirror, eyes locked on Steve for a moment. "You really believe that? That you could have sat back and done nothing while things were going wrong?"

 

"If I had to, yes."

 

"Things that were nominally your responsibility?"

 

"It would have been the right choice. I'd like to say, 'yes'."

 

"Alright then," Nat sighed, deflating immediately. "I'm at fault, I can admit that. I'm sorry."

 

"You just made a mistake, Natasha…" Steve replied after a very brief, though seriously tense pause. "And with all the right intentions. We forgive that. I appreciate that you were looking out for us. Maybe next time…"

 

"Think like a person before you act like a spy," Buck finished for him. "It's hard when obscuring information is your job and your first instinct. But we're not your job. Or I hope we're not."

 

"No… you're not. You're my friends. And I'll treat you like that from now on. You deserved to know… but you would have had to have listened to me, to have listened to my advice and trusted me, that I was looking out for you. I hope you will in the future."

 

"Without hesitation," Steve answered.

 

"Oh, I'd argue with you on it."

 

The whole car laughed, a little awkwardly but relieved at the tension breaking.

 

"And I don't doubt that. Or expect anything else."

 

Sam looked out the window at the pine trees dancing past them. They all sat in renewed silence, recovering. That, if they weren't as close as they'd become in the last months, could have been a complete shit show.

 

"So…" Kate was the one to break the silence at last. "Is anyone else counting how many times I can put my foot in my big mouth?"

 

"I am," Clint answered immediately. "And I'm hoping we top off at two, because they're getting exponentially worse each time. Oh, we're here. Turn in here, Nat."

 

The SUV slowed and turned onto a bumpy gravel and sand side road. It led straight into the pine woods they'd been driving through for the past fifteen minutes. As they passed the tree line a small sign for a wildlife preserve popped up. They were going into the middle of nothing.

 

"Say, Clinton, this isn't by any chance the place in the middle of nowhere you found yourself the night of the domino disaster?" Buck's mood recovered quickly.

 

"That would be exactly where this is, Buchanan. It's so remote no one will hear, see, or find us."

 

It was like a stone had just dropped into Sam's stomach. Steve had been wrong. This was a very bad surprise. Shit was going to go down.

 

"You could have chosen a less ominous way of describing that, Clint," Natasha said as the vehicle pulled to the stop at the end of the path. "This is just, like Clint said, remote enough that we can go undetected as we let our legs stretch a bit, if you will." She hopped out of the driver's seat and came around to open the back door. "Contrary to how I might have come off earlier, I'm not against everyone being prepared for the consequences of our actions several months ago." She lowered the back seat and gave Steve a long look, holding her hand out to help him out. "This is a full training session. Time to let you guys show off."

 

"More like shake of the dust," Buck griped, stretching and pacing the edge of the clearing. "I seriously doubt we're going to be impressing anyone. I , at least, am out of practice. Gotten slow and soft-- woah!"

 

Buck stood staring at Nat, left arm in front of his chest, woods ringing with the pings of impact and gunfire.

 

"What were you thinking? I'm holding the dog!"

 

"Rubber bullets," she shrugged, reloading her clip.

 

"Still holding a dog!"

 

"Well, you're not soft or slow. And now you know." Buck continued staring at her in surprise as Nat marched around and started handing out equipment. "Okay everyone. All the rounds are rubber. All the arrow tips are dulled and non-lethal tricks, I've been assured. There are six Kevlar vests to keep the bruising on us mere humans to a minimum. Please try to keep our more delicate skeletons in mind when hand to hand starts, but frankly, if you let them catch you, I'm not going to feel bad for you." She was looking at Sam and Clint and the badass ladies three. She pulled off her big winter coat and tossed it aside, revealing her Widow's bites on her wrists and a whole slew of holsters. "Dividing into teams of two, hunt and take down. We'll regroup here at two for a lunch break, then resume for the evening to night session. This is going to be fun."

 

Clint stepped up and started divvying up gear and weapons. "Maria and Sharon, you're together. Full stock in these cases. Kate, you and me. Our crap's in that duffle, suit up and don't take all the gadget arrows. Nat and Sam, here's yours." He tossed Sam an enormous canvas bag that ended up weighing half a ton. His Falcon rig was inside. "And last but not least, the old geezers, of course, are together. Buchanan, I believe you'll find all the toys you could ever want in there." He handed Buck as bag of his own and accepted little Wobbles in exchange.

 

"And for Cap," Nat fished rummaged in the back of the SUV's storage compartments, finally stepping out with an icon. "His shield." She tossed it to him, smiling as he caught it and filled the clearing with a soft ringing.

 

"It does feel good to carry it again," he said, also smiling. "You ready, Buck?"

 

"One minute." Buck followed Clint to the car and made sure Wobbles was curled up happily with Lucky in the dog bed. Comfortable with that set up he stepped away and slipped off his leather jacket he'd worn out here and handed it to Clint. "Hold onto that for me, won't you."

 

"Sure… since it was mine," Clint grumbled and tossed it into the back of the car. "What're you doing?"

 

Buck had stripped off his shirt and was putting it in the car as well. "I'm getting ready. I only have about five shirts now. I can't afford to ruin that one out here." He stood and caught the jacket tossed to him by Nat. "I figured one of you would have me covered."

 

Nat sauntered up. "And I figured you would have the good sense not to ruin another shirt. Sorry about the smell. You just can't get that sort of clean in a leather. Hope you're ready to wear this again."

 

"You didn't burn it?" Sam felt personally affronted by the Winter Soldier monstrosity Buck was buttoning on over his undershirt.

 

"No, I didn't burn it. It wouldn't catch fire." Natasha shrugged as she joined Sam at their bag to finish gearing up.

 

"Oh, bad _ass_!" Kate couldn't keep it to herself as Buck stepped back around the SUV, left arm exposed, smoothing out the front of his old uniform.

 

"You okay wearing that?" Steve asked, fastening his shield holster.

 

"Not a problem. Stinks, but besides that, it's better than tearing a shirt I like." He shrugged, fastening the first of several holsters on himself. "And I'm excited to see how this goes." He geared up his left arm and let it hum as he tested the weight of a knife. "Oh, uh, Natasha! These knives aren't dulled."

 

"Well, yeah. Wouldn't want to ruin good knifes. Just don't stab us."

 

He scoffed. "You weren't kidding yesterday. This is quite the demonstration of trust. I could go off the rails and kill all of you."

 

"But you won't. Instead, you'll take advantage of a chance to prepare for your next role and impress all of us in the process."

 

"Yeah," Sam chimed in, feeling pumped in his rig, with the goggles and wings on again. "Let us see a preview of what it'll be like, you and Cap fighting side by side again. It's gonna be boss!"

 

Nat chuckled and stepped back, finished securing Sam's gear. She looked around and then whistled. "Everybody ready? Okay, Cap and Winter are the good guys, we're the bad guys. Come and catch us."

 

After the gunshot rang out, Steve still didn't move. He knew how tag worked. You had to count to ten or it was no contest. Sam and Natasha swooped away, the Falcon suit carrying them darting through the trees and out of sight. Maria and Sharon disappeared as quickly as you would expect two high level ex S.H.I.E.L.D. agents to slip into the shadows. Clint and Kate sprinted off with a mixture of grace and curses, also to expectations. That left just him and Buck in the middle of the forest.

 

Bucky took a deep breath and turned around in a circle, hands on his hips. "Even smells like Germany," he commented lightly and pulled out a side arm, locking the round. "Should we go impress them?"

 

Steve flexed under the shield. He wasn't sure about this. "Are you sure, Buck? You sure you're ready to do this? Wear that? Let Natasha call you--"

 

"Stop worrying, Steve. I'm fine with this. It's just a uniform, just a codename. They don't make who I am anymore. Besides, it's been a long time since I really showed off. And now, there are pretty ladies here. I aim to be pretty damn impressive. Try to keep up."

 

The competitiveness in his voice made Steve relax. He sounded confident and brash, just like he used to. "Well, alright then. Let's go be impressive."

 

Trekking through the woods quickly reminded Steve of one thing, Buck might be the pragmatic one between them, more focused on reality than ideality, but that didn't mean he was exactly always practical. Actually, he tended to be a little rash.

 

"Buck, they're thirty odd feet in the air. What are you going to do?"

 

Bucky was storing away the binoculars and holstering his pistol. "I'm gonna climb the tree."

 

"You weigh twice what she does. That tiny limb she's on won't hold both of you, and even if it does long enough for you to get to her, Clint is much faster than he seems. He'll shoot you out of the tree."

 

"Then let 'em. If he can."

 

"Buck, he'll probably see you long before you get up there. You're just putting yourself up there as an easy target. Why do you think they chose these spots?"

 

"Then I'll shoot them out. Good idea, Steve." He dropped from the twenty foot high branch he'd just straddled and began assembling his long range sniper rifle. "You think they've anchored themselves or we'll have to catch them?"

 

"You can't shoot them out of the trees, Buck. They could die."

 

"We would catch them, obviously."

 

"And you think you can set up for a clear shot this far out, shoot them and then get beneath their perches in time to catch them?"

 

Bucky thought about that for a moment. "Yes. Especially if you're already part the way there when I fire the first shot."

 

"And you'll hit them? Not just spook them?"

 

"Oh, Steve," he grinned with all the cockiness possible for one person to have, "you know me better than that."

 

He was right, neither Bucky nor the Winter Soldier loosed a round that wasn't going to hit home. Standing out of their cover to check the perimeter Steve decided this was what they were doing. He would catch them if Clint and Kate weren't already harnessed to their look out spots. The coast was clear. He had a route to Clint's tree in his sights. Buck already had aim in lock.

 

"You got 'em?"

 

"Yeah. Clint's looking south so stay low as you head his way, I'll fire when you're passing Kate's tree. Then I'll take her down and be right behind you."

 

"Copy that," Steve sighed. This was going to be interesting.

 

The little puff of the silenced rifle sounded behind Steve right on time. Ahead of him about two yards and thirty feet up Clint let out a strangled yelp and tumbled off of his perch.

 

"Fuuuck!" He fell fast and Steve was going to be there right on time, until he promptly stopped falling. "Aw, come on, harness…" He was left suspended fifteen feet off the ground, upside down. His bow and half his gear dropped to the forest floor in front of Steve. That was when the first arrow hit.

 

Steve heard it in time to duck it and roll to cover before it exploded. Kate had seen him. There was too much foliage to try the shield at her. Steve was just going to have to keep dodging until Buck took her out of the tree.

 

"Get 'em, Kate! He's fifty out at your eight o' clock."

 

Damn. Clint had made Buck's shot trajectory. And now he was shooting at Steve. He might have been hanging upside down from a tree, but he could still shoot. Steve leapt around until he was out of range and then looked back at Buck's cover. Another round hadn't been fired, but he was nowhere to be found. The next exploding arrow clued off where he'd gone. He was a few yards east, heading towards Steve fast. Kate almost clipped him again, but Buck rolled and changed directions. She was an excellent shot, but Bucky was just so damn fast. The next arrow flew true nonetheless, it just never hit. Bucky caught it and tossed it away, putting up a wall of smoke between him and Clint and then leaping into one of the trees beside Kate's. He was going to pin her in.

 

Steve followed suit, running out to give her another target and letting the shield get some game time. He might not have had an unimpeded angle, but he could make some noise and shake some things up. Soon there was a rain of pine needles and bark scraps to provide cover even after the explosion sizzled out. Buck was already level with Kate and taking aim. Steve just needed to keep her busy for another second. He gave the shield another boomeranging hurl and attracted an electrified arrow which was left crackling in the undergrowth beside him.

 

"Shit!" The pop of Buck's pistol left Kate swinging a few feet below her branch, squirming in her harness. "Oh, dammit, Clint! It's getting all up in my business!"

 

"Well, at least you're not upside down!"

 

Bucky landed with a thump beside Steve and stalked over to Clint's tree. "You surrender?"

 

"Well, yeah! You shot me out of a tree and I'm out of ammo. I don't expect to beat you hanging here like this."

 

"Get me outta this harness, please! This is the worst wedgie of my entire existence!"

 

Bucky laughed and stepped back, closing one eye and squeezing the trigger. Clint fell the rest of the fifteen feet into Steve's arms without flailing.

 

"Thank you," he hopped to the ground and started gathering up his tools. "That was a good shot, Buchanan. We didn't see you at that angle."

 

"Thanks," Buck mumbled, focusing on Kate's swinging harness rope. When she was falling towards Steve he continued, "if you hadn't been bickering we would have walked right into your sights. Your perches were well concealed."

 

"Thanks, big guy." Kate kept squirming, even on the ground again, until she kicked the harness off. "Well, that was fun. I suppose we should go scheme up another plan now. Just one question though, were you planning on catching us after you shot us out of the trees, or was this a little haphazard, whoops let's hope they survive plan?"

 

"Oh, no. Steve and I were going to catch you for sure." Buck grinned, breaking down his sniper rifle. "Natasha would have killed us if we just let you fall and break your necks."

 

"Well, that's a relief. You found anyone else yet?"

 

"No, you two were the first. The rest must be on the move still."

 

"Man, Clint, thanks to you we would have been the first killed in the Hunger Games!"

 

"Hey, you were to one who stole all my fun arrows."

 

"Okay, you two… we'll see you later…" Steve shrugged at Bucky and then set off into the woods again, Clint and Kate continuing to bicker behind them.

 

"You wouldn't have shot him anyway. You think he's too pretty."

 

"I did too shoot at him. Three times! He's just too friggin fast!"

 

"Or you're aim's off 'cause you're all twitterpated by his big blue eyes."

 

"Okay, but they _are_ stunning! And that chin dimple. Ach, I just wanna boop it…"

 

"Geez…" Bucky sighed beside Steve, running his hand hard over his face. "That kid."

 

"She's sure got it bad for you, Buck." Behind them, she was still going on. Now she'd moved onto his mouth. When Steve looked over to share a glance with Buck, he found him blushing.

 

"The kid's got an imagination," he mumbled, probably trying to not hear what Kate was saying at that point. "Just wish she'd keep it to herse-- oof!"

 

If they'd been paying better attention, they would have noticed the very careful distribution of leaves in front of them, but Kate had been distracting them fairly successfully.

 

"Goddamnit!" The thunk that followed sounded bad.

 

"You alright, Buck?" Steve, still teetering, looked down, toes right on the edge of a camouflaged pit. Bucky was about twenty feet down, climbing back onto his feet.

 

"Christ. Fuck." He was brushing gunk and mud off his jeans, spitting rotting leaves out of his mouth. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Except I've fallen into a gigantic fucking hole. I'm goddamn half way to hell down here."

 

"Yeah, I can see that, Buck. Hold tight while I find something to pull you out with."

 

"No, no time. Get ready. Incoming."

 

Steve had a feeling too, this was a trap. He pulled on the shield and took position in front of the pit. And just in time for the rain of bullets on his left. He dodged and deflected them, but couldn't see their source. He suspected Maria and Sharon. Behind him Bucky was straining. It sounded like he was making his way up the side of the pit by jumping from one side to another and hauling himself up. Steve stepped in front of another barrage and slipped carefully back to the edge of the hole, kneeling and holding out his hand just in time for Bucky to catch onto.

 

"Get ready." Steve braced himself and then physically hurled Buck towards their assailants. The gunfire cut down in half almost immediately and Steve charged straight towards the rest.

 

As he broke through the underbrush he caught sight of Maria Hill to his three o' clock, doing an impressive job of keeping Bucky at bay. That meant Sharon was waiting for him. The gunfire stopped as Steve broke past her cover and swung around.

 

"Oh, come on, Agent. Don't go easy on me, now."

 

"Don't worry, I won't," Sharon grinned right back. "I'm just switching range." She tossed a smoke grenade and rolled out of his sight. The first bullet hit him in the high shoulder and, rubber or not, that thing stung. The second and third he deflected, but he still couldn't find her. She was moving and moving fast. So, Steve stopped moving, let the noise of the movements around him do the work for him. The scuffling of Bucky and Maria to his right were distracting, but he could still track her well enough to avoid getting hit.

 

"Ah, damn it! Fine. Uncle." Maria's voice echoed a few yards off, but Steve still didn't break guard.

 

"Sharon's still active, Buck!" Steve called out.

 

"Is she the one that cracked the damn smoker?"

 

"Ya like it?" Sharon answered just before nearly splitting Steve's head open with a roundhouse.

 

He dodged, taking the force of it on his shoulder and engaging hand to hand. This made him nervous. He didn't want to hurt her, but Sharon seemed less than concerned, coming at him with full force. It was all speed and dodging until Steve was forced to catch another kick and then pinned her to him to hold her still.

 

"Ah, do you two need another moment?" Bucky asked, waving off the smoke as he led a disarmed Maria Hill towards them.

 

"No, I concede," Sharon sighed and Steve let her go immediately. The air felt colder and Steve became aware just how closely he'd had to hold her just then. He had a feeling he was going to start blushing.

 

"Good game, guys, good game." Sharon was brushing herself off and collecting dropped weapons. "I thought for sure the pit would give us an advantage."

 

"Oh, it did. They took the Hawkeyes down in half the time." Maria accepted her weapons back from Bucky and then checked her watch. "Well, it's four 'til two. We might as well head back to the car together to get some lunch. You guys never ran into Romanoff and Wilson?"

 

"Nope. Spent the first hour just trudging through the woods. Damn, how did you two dig that pit so fast? It was really deep."

 

"Oh, that?" Sharon bobbed her head when Steve motioned for her to walk in front. "We found that with a big piece of wood covering it. It's got to be an old hunting trap. Just figured we'd take advantage of it."

 

"Well, it was a good idea. You'd have taken out half a pursuing battalion like that." Steve checked the sun and then adjusted their heading slightly. "If we'd been anyone else, you would have won with it alone."

 

"Very true, because I'm pretty sure I broke my ass falling into it." Bucky winced as he pulled a knife from its sheath. "Bent my knife too."

 

"Lucky for you, you have a superhuman healing factor. Your poor knife doesn't." Maria took it from him, inspecting its new 120 degree bend.

 

Bucky took it back. "I can hammer it out. Maybe."

 

"Just don't show Romanoff. She'll be upset, such a nice blade."

 

Just then they stepped through the veil of pine needles and back into the clearing where the vehicle waited, and with it the dogs and the food. Clint and Kate had already dug into the hot dogs and burgers that had been heated up on the grill. Sam must've been there for a while by then.

 

"You're late." Natasha slipped out of the driver's seat and tossed aside her phone. "I had started triangulating your signals."

 

"We had to finish our match up," Steve offered, and then gladly accepted a plate from Sam.

 

"We almost had them."

 

"Oh, yeah? With what?" Kate sounded skeptical.

 

"A hole."

 

"No," Bucky interrupted. "You undersell this masterpiece of strategy. This was a hell pit, a fucking chasm. I fell into it. I would know."

 

"It was a big game sink hole," Sharon added in. "About ten feet by ten feet by twenty feet. It was a doozy of a drop."

 

"James, what did you do to that knife?"

 

"I bent it, well my ass and this pit bent it. I can't really take credit for that."

 

"That is a travesty. Give me that."

 

"So, uh, Sam, Natasha, why didn't you two engage us?" Steve asked, taking a seat on the bumper of the car next to Maria.

 

"Yeah, you two, why _didn't_ you attack them? We could have used some backup or something. Buchanan _shot me out of a tree_." Clint took a frankly enormous bite out of his hot dog and then still somehow managed to continue talking. "I mean, you know how beat to hell I am, Nat, how I'm bound to have some organ damage. We coulda used some help."

 

"Guess we went the wrong way," Natasha replied with a small frown. "Oops." She almost had Buck's knife hammered back to normal at this point.

 

"That is a sack of shit if I ever smelled one," Clint grumbled and then stuffed the rest of his food into his face. He was right, though. Steve had little doubt in his mind that they being MIA for several hours was a coincident. Natasha must have been planning something special for the evening round.

 

"Well, I don't know how you found this place Barton, but it is really quite picturesque," Maria commented, a few minutes later as everyone was kicking back after finishing their lunches.

 

"He stumbled into blind drunk when he couldn't drive any farther without puking or dying."

 

"Oh, well, that makes it slightly less picturesque, but I still like it."

 

"Yeah… me too. It's kinda great out here." Sharon slipped to sit on her heels beside Lucky, scratching behind his ear until he wagged his tail in his sleep. "I saw a chipmunk earlier. Never seen a chipmunk before."

 

"Meh," Kate said. "It's alright. I think the whole back to nature crap is overblown. Wow, there're trees. Wow, the wind's blowing. Wow, animals are crapping five feet away. I dunno. If you can get eaten by a bear just by being there, I'm not a fan."

 

"You can get eaten by a lot worse in the city…" Sam muttered and made everyone laugh darkly.

 

"Wilderness is good when you need cover but bad when you need support. That said, I've always wanted a cabin. Just to escape to, but things like that always seem to get trashed when I own them."

 

"It's because of all the despicable characters you associate with, Tasha."

 

"But, it's the fucking woods. What the hell are you gonna do in the forest every day? Forage? Hunt squirrels? Sounds rough. Makes for a good training space and that's about it."

 

"Says the guy who just found out he could choose what he did on a day to day basis."

 

"Shut up, Sam."

 

Clint tossed a pine cone in the air and knocked it into his duffle with another. "I dunno… I could live out here. It's nice. The air is nice. The quiet's nice. It's different and nice."

 

Kate scoffed, even louder than before. "It's no New York, that's for sure."

 

"No, it's better than the city. It's… cleaner."

 

"Alright, Mr. Into the Wild, why don't you just come live out here then, if you really like it so much."

 

"Maybe I will…"

 

"Yeah. Right. Oh yeah, _I'm Hawkeye and I hang out with actual hawks and shoot my dinners._ Pssshh. That would be ridiculous. You couldn't survive a week if you weren't able to order pizza in or have coffee made and waiting for you when you woke up. I'd find you dead in an abandoned bus, no doubt about it."

 

Clint, meanwhile, obviously hadn't heard a thing she'd said. "Yeah… I like that idea… living off the grid… no HYDRA, no losing fingernails, no internal bleeding. Just clean air and peace and quiet."

 

Bucky leaned really close to Steve. "I think something broke inside Clint on that last HYDRA raid. … Maybe that's something we _should_ look into."

 

"I don't think so." Steve shook his head hard. Natasha had been right, no matter how misguided before. They were not ready to get back in the game just yet. "They have it taken care of, like they said."

 

Bucky frowned deeply, but didn't push the point.Besides, the group discussion had moved on without them.

 

"…at six and then we can head back for a late dinner. Sound good to everyone?"

 

"Yeah, but are we going to see what these two can _really_ do?" Kate asked, cleaning under her nails with an arrow head. "I mean, I saw better than all this on the news recaps."

 

Clint turned and looked at her like she was crazy. "Uh, personally, I think I've seen enough already… do you not remember the being shot out of a tree part?"

 

Kate shrugged. Maybe she was crazy.

 

"Let's just wait and see what the evening round brings, okay? Then we can discuss whether or not they've been properly shown off." Yep. Natasha definitely had something up her sleeve. And she was just so proud of it too, judging by that smirk.

 

And in reality, it was a masterpiece, something for her to be proud of.

 

Despite being on edge, Steve never even saw it coming. He and Buck had been tracking a trail of broken branches for about a hundred yards when they tripped the first snare. It wasn't a real snare, it was an infrared emitter, but all the same they tripped it. And then all hell broke loose. Bullets were peppering them, a remote EMP had taken out Buck's arm, and it sounded like the entire forest was screaming. Even with his left arm out of commission, Bucky was firing off round after round, and hitting something by the pings his shots earned, but their assailants weren't letting up. It didn't help that the sun was mostly set and dusk under the canopy of forty plus foot pines meant full dark on the ground.

 

"What the fuck are they?" Buck landed another two rounds on a target, both ricocheting off with metallic _twangs_. They were machines, that was for sure. "And where the fuck did they come from?"

 

"Natasha," Steve said, hurling his shield yet again and earning only a clump and the dull sound of it falling to the ground. He sighed, the bullets were starting to smart.

 

"Fuck it all to hell…" Bucky abandoned the gun approach and charged one, whatever it was. Steve heard a thump of impact and then some smothered curses from Buck before his friend came skidding back into view. "They're drones. Cockbag drones, I swear."

 

"Drones? She's operating them somewhere?"

 

"Her or one of the others--ouch! Fuck! That was in my ear, asshole! Yeah, someone's controlling them, but not that one anymore." He held up the wiring and dish for remote receiving. "Now it's just firing blind."

 

At this point, the bombardment of bullets was making his knees shake. The dull sound of them hitting his flesh sounded like a hard rain, accented by the pitched rings of those finding Buck's left arm. Steve had to do something besides cover and throw the shield, that wasn't making any headway. He decided to try Buck's approach.

 

Tackling one of the drones proved to be surprisingly easy. They had the fire power but not the speed. He ripped its remote operating receiver off as well and then went to town on its other exposed parts. Thrown the shield didn't make a dent, but wielded like a blunted sword, it did serious damage. So, did Bucky's arm once it revved back up. Soon there were only three drones left and Steve could feel his nerve endings again. Then the reinforcements showed up.

 

Natasha was on Steve faster than the drones, and today she was playing with wires. When he tried to unseat her from his shoulders, she just went swinging off back through the trees and into the murk. Sam swooped in at about that point and nailed Bucky right in the forehead. Steve was honestly impressed with the lack of sound coming from Buck as he tumbled across the ground, rolling over rocks and logs and finally skidding into a tree. It was quite the kick to the face he'd endured. That all changed when he found his feet again.

 

"Ha, ha! That was really cute, Sam! Why don't you come back down here and try that again, goddamnit! I'll rip those wings right off your back and shove 'em up your a--" Sam accepted that challenge, Buck didn't follow through on his end. He was too busy spitting dirt out.

 

Steve dismantled the third drone and then jogged over to check on Bucky. Rolling him over, he found him laughing. Hysterically. "He… made me… eat… my own goddamn words! Oh, fuck… wow. I'm still gonna rip that exo suit apart when I catch him, but that was impressive."

 

He accepted Steve's hand and allowed him to haul him to his feet again, ignoring the fire of the drones. They were like flies buzzing around their ears at this point, just a distraction. So was that arrow that landed in between them. A loud, extremely bright distraction.

 

Steve, disoriented and deafened, flailed for anything to latch onto, but it was difficult with someone carrying you through the air by your legs. By the time Sam dropped him, Steve could see again and was a prime target for another sensory overload arrow. This one left him trying to ward off a ground attack without his shield. Then all of a sudden, Steve could see again.

 

Natasha didn't pause, unaffected by the new and unidentified source of light, wearing night vision goggles as she was, but it sure did help Steve. That was until the electrified arrow hit him between the shoulder blades. Then he got a taste of what Bucky had gotten a face full of before. It was earthy, sappy and a little coppery. Or maybe that was just the shock.

 

"Above you, Steve!"

 

He rolled in time to avoid Natasha jolting him with another couple hundred volts, turning to see Bucky fighting off Sharon and Maria and Sam's aerial gunfire. He had a drone hooked under one arm with its guts spilling out of it, headlight beam turned on full and bathing the forest in front of it.

 

"This was a good plan, Natasha," Steve panted, dodging her strikes and looking around for his shield. "Very clever."

 

"I do what I can."

 

"You nearly had us."

 

"What do you mean nearly? I have you right now."

 

"Yeah, flies in your web, Widow. I know."

 

She grinned and swung back out of sight, giving Steve time to find his shield lodged in a tree and yank it out. Buck was receiving fire, but had decent cover under a split old tree. Steve joined him there after destroying the final drone.

 

"Having fun yet?"

 

"You could say that. Hold this." He passed Steve the remains of his flashlight drone and loaded a gun. "Let's see how they feel under heavy fire."

 

"Now, go easy, Buck…"

 

"Oh, stop worrying, you ninny. I'm not going to shoot their faces or anything." He shot down the next trick arrow fired their way, setting off a net over half the area. The next round found a human target.

 

"You've got to be kidding me!"

 

"See? Being upside down is just not worth it."

 

Buck's next shot missed. It bounced off a tree and into the forest when Natasha tackled him from behind. To their credit, the nets that fell on top of them next were a good idea too, they just could have stood to be stronger. Steve ripped through his and then used it wrap up Sharon, leaving her rolled in it like a little cigar next to a tree. He couldn't find Maria, but Clint was an easy spot as he hopped down to shoot the next net arrow. Steve side stepped that and then leapt for Clint's tree. Scrambling didn't suit him and soon Steve had caught him and left him hanging once again from his harness, this time not upside down.

 

"Aww, testicles…" he wheezed as Steve hopped back towards the ground.

 

To his six, Bucky was still struggling to catch Natasha, his left arm hanging limp by his side again. She knew his weaknesses and exploited them ruthlessly. As of that moment, Bucky would probably need Steve's help to deal with her. But Maria still had to be around there somewhere. Steve would find her and then back up Buck, that was the plan. Too bad the plan forgot Sam. He swept Steve up mid stride and, even with all the flailing and kicking, managed to haul him to the top of a tree and drop him there, one hand magcuffed to his own belt. Climbing back down was a challenge like that and, about fifteen feet up, turned into falling.

 

Steve recovered from that as well, spitting out dead pine needles and dirt and trying to regain his bearings. That was when Maria came at him with a cattle prod. The first jolt sent Steve back a few months to an elevator with Rumlow. It smelled like burning hair and betrayal, but Maria wasn't stabbing him in the back. She was just trying to win.

 

"Sorry, Steve, but these're the only things we know of that'll slow you down. And, let's be honest, I don't pull punches."

 

"That's fine, Maria." Steve ducked another jab and tried to knock the wand from her hand. It would have been easier if he had the use of his right hand. "It wouldn't be a real victory for Buck and me if you all didn't put in 100%."

 

"Real cute, Rogers." She got him again, this time in an armpit, and left Steve staggering. As he was staggering, Natasha yelled something behind him and Maria pulled a sidearm on him. "But we've got this round." The three tranq darts whistled as they hurtled towards him.

 

One, two, ping, ping. Steve was able to deflect the first two rounds but the third found its mark in his neck. They worked fast. The world spun then warped and then turned sideways.

 

"Rogers down!"

 

"Now, Wilson!"

 

"Oof! Goddamnit, Natasha."

 

From his position, flopped over on the forest floor, Steve could see Bucky flying into the air, yanked by his leg. At that angle, he looked to Steve like he was trying to touch down one-footed on the sky.

 

"Well, Rogers, looks like you've been outmatched."

 

"Yeah, sorry, boys but--" Natasha stopped midsentence, pausing as she sauntered Steve's way. Her eye was on the forest canopy. "Wilson?"

 

There was a far off sound of scuffling and then a sudden rain of pine needles.

 

"Sam!"

 

"I think Buchanan got 'em, Tash." Clint was in the process of hauling himself up his line.

 

"Sam?!"

 

"Sorry, Nat," he finally replied, swinging into view, trussed and bound. "Watch out, he nabbed my tranqs!"

 

Natasha clicked her tongue in disappointment, but Steve would have sworn she was grinning. He also noticed that he could feel his extremities again. Slowly, he began unfastening his belt.

 

"Watch Steve, would you? I'm going to get Barnes." Natasha marched off and left Steve a prime opportunity. With Maria's back turned he could bind and escape in one move. But he waited, he wanted Buck in the clear so Maria wouldn't give them away to Natasha. She was getting cocky, he wanted to take advantage of that.

 

"Okay, Barnes! It's pitch black down here and you don't have a scope. You can't make the shot. So, just come on out and I'll hand you your ass again in hand-to-hand!"

 

From far away, Steve heard a snort.

 

"Keep moving, Nat! He can make the shot, I saw him work earlier."

 

"That gun doesn't have the distance on it! Just come on down!" Natasha was making a lot of noise, but it didn't seem to be coming from the right place. Steve could see her, to his left but her voice sounded like it was straight ahead. She was throwing it, her voice, to mislead Bucky. The pop went off from way up in the trees, answered by a muffled hit to a trunk, exactly where Natasha's voice had been echoing a moment before. She smiled, just a flash of white in the low light, and called out, "I told you, you can't make that shot--"

 

She rolled just in time to miss the answering dart, but wasn't fast enough to escape Bucky himself as he landed right behind her. "Who said I was trying to make the shot?" He wrapped an arm around her and set the gun to her neck. "I win."

 

"Maria… any time now-- Damn." Natasha saw Steve before Maria sensed him, but without enough time to warn her. The belt was around both her wrists before Natasha could finish her expletive.

 

"And… round two to Rogers and Barnes," Bucky said happily, exchanging guns and quickly shooting Clint off his newly acquired perch.

 

"Oh! Son of a bitch."

 

"That would be us winning. You were right, Steve. This _was_ a good surprise."

 

Steve chuckled. "Alright, Buck. Enough boasting. Let's get everybody untied and cut down so we can go home for dinner."

 

Bucky nodded and they dispersed to free their friends.

 

"Hey, you know how I was being a brat earlier?"

 

"Yes!" They all answered Kate in unison.

 

"Yeah, well… foot in mouth again. I take it all back. That was seriously incredible. I don't even mind that I spent the whole time watching you upside down. It was like a free action movie. And your hair looked great before. You can totally pull off the bedhead look, no effort."

 

The forest groaned collectively. Everyone seemed happy when Buck finally reached her in the tree and shut her up.

 

"Okay, Kate. Grab my hand. Hold on, I'm going to cut you free. Kate. Get your hands on my shoulders or I'll accidently drop you on purpose. No groping."

 

"Alright, alright. But you can't blame me for trying. I just wanted to feel. Just as firm as I had dreamed. Oops. My hand sliiiiiiiiipped!" When Steve whipped around from reeling in Clint, he found Kate hanging five feet off the ground. She flailed for a moment, swinging with her eyes still closed, before opening them and relaxing. "Ah! Oh my god. Don't worry guys! I'm fine, though I totally thought I was going to die for a second. _Thanks_ , Barnes!"

 

Bucky was still up the tree, holding Kate's line that he'd just sawed through, smirk on his face. "Oops. My hand slipped."

 

"Yeah, okay, I deserved that. It was _worth_ it, though." She hit the ground with a soft smack, face in the dirt. "I deserved that too."

 

* * *

 

 

And with their departure from the forest melee arena, the fun ended. At least from Natasha's perspective. No more shooting, no more stalking prey, no more weapons -- unless you count paring knives, which she did, but not the really _fun_ kind. It was all domestic, safe, constructive activities from then on out. Their little foray back into actual action had left her in a rotten, withdrawal-dampened mood, and she certainly wasn't looking forward to Thursday. Thursday would be the absolute worst: a whole day of socializing, making small talk, sitting still and stuffing their faces. Not her idea of a good time, and certainly not relaxing like everyone else claimed. Her idea of relaxing? Preparing. And sitting, eating, chatting, all these were not preparing. They were the opposite. She knew the value of it, maintaining their cover and all that, but after feeling like herself again, after reveling in how well things could go with the new members of her team, it was a bitter pill.

 

But she was alone in that. The whole group of them seemed to have gotten what Natasha had intended from the exercise -- confidence, practice, fun -- and to have afterwards just carried that over back into the mundaneness of life in their cover. The ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. lifers all were benefitting from the break, looking more well rested and actually melting into some semblance of normal people. Clint's neck wound was healing and Kate seemed to have remembered her social graces. Steve and Bucky had their moments of melancholy, but Natasha suspected that had nothing to do with withdrawals, but rather the unsettling reveal of her indirect duplicitousness and what it had concealed from them. Also, perhaps the tendency for holidays to arouse nostalgia in emotionally adjusted individuals could have been at play there. And Sam. Sam was his exuberantly cheerful self, multiplied exponentially. He was very enthusiastic about holidays and food, and Thanksgiving was the great American food holiday. This was his paradise.

 

That just left Natasha, the rain cloud at the parade, sitting in their midst a dampening agent of joy, with Wobbles on her lap. There she sat, mulling for hours, while pie after pie was baked. In the end, six pies in all were prepared for the next day, effectively taking up the entire day in the pursuit of a single goal: gluttony. But that day was not all. The next portended the same, with Sam waking before even Natasha and getting side dishes prepared for their assembly line trips to the oven. She watched as mashed potatoes and yam casserole, green bean bakes and Brussel sprouts, cranberries and dinner rolls were assembled and then set aside, all for a grand total of thirteen people to eat. It was absurd. And the whole time, Natasha was just itching for action. Conversations couldn't hold her interest, busy work merely tickled. She wanted to research, to plan, to devise and execute. She wanted to work, and instead, she was stuck luxuriating.

 

It continued through the dinner. Mundane conversations slipped from one ear through the other, leaving no trace. Smiles were exchanged and niceties gushed but she wasn't there. The food passed her lips but she didn't taste it. She was distracted, bored. And she missed things, interesting, entertaining things because she was sated with this routine, with these covers, with this place, with civilian life. It had grown cloying.

 

She nearly didn't notice when the meal was through and they had returned to their apartment, so checked out she had been. But no one seemed to have noticed her mental absence, so it didn't matter. She drifted among them as they packed their things up, prepared the giant cleanup process, and she mildly regretted missing the event. But only mildly, and only because of the characters involved. But she got the highlights for the most part as she listened to everyone else chat.

 

"I honestly cannot believe he ate that. All of that. It would have been impressive if it weren't so disgusting."

 

"And indicative of a real problem we have as a society--"

 

"Now, now, don't you two go analyzing the fun from my holiday. Let's just say it was impressive that his buttons didn't pop one of us in the face as they escaped. … Y'all want leftovers for the ride back?"

 

"Oh, yes. Yes, please."

 

"Hit me. This'll feed me for a week or so."

 

…

 

"… you do, tell Stark I appreciate it."

 

"You got it, Cap. America's appreciation, headin' Stark's way."

 

"Don't let him gloat about it, though. Oh, and keep him in line, please. You know how he can be. I don't wanna come out of deep cover and have to clean up his mess. So, you're sure the bill is going through next month?"

 

"I mean, its groundwork legislature got popular support in the election. A redraft just wouldn't make sense."

 

"And the public knows about it… that could be serious."

 

"Yeah, Stark's nose is already in it… been griping and holing himself up a lot, Rhodes can't even get him out sometimes. Says he's taking some heat."

 

"Then, it's best that Buck stays out of the lime light, earning his stripes undercover for a while, 'til this passes over."

 

"If I were him, I'd opt out of public scrutiny permanently. From the get go. Wish I had a time machine just for that sometimes…"

 

…

 

"And, uh, thanks for being appropriate."

 

"Yeah, well thanks for letting me _not_ be your little sister. It woulda been more convincing if you'd consented to more PDA."

 

"I don't know what that means, but I'm gonna go ahead and preemptively claim the others passed as couples well enough without that."

 

"Sure, sure, sure. You make a good case, but in all seriousness, I'm fangirling out so hard right now, have been this whole time. Is there any way I can at least get a picture with you?"

 

"Uh… you don't want one with Steve or Natasha or… _anyone_ besides me… one of the real heroes?"

 

"Those clowns? No. I see them all the time. I feel like you're going to be a superhero unicorn, one of the ones that only surfaces ever thirty years under a harvest moon. I want documentation that I met Bucky Barnes, national hero and badass assassin."

 

"Uh…"

 

"I'll take that as a 'yes'! Come 'ere, big boy, let's get my good side. Get the arm in there."

 

"Don't you want someone to take it for you? Tasha, will you--"

 

"Nah, I got it. Gonna selfie it up."

 

"Ooookay. Cheese?"

 

"Thanks! Ah, plus you're so pretty. I'm going to tell all those uppity ass faces from home you're my boyfriend. Now who's a loser with no man, no real job, and no life. Still me, but they won't know that! Hah!"

 

"Riiiiight…"

 

Natasha smothered a grin as best she could and filled Kate's now empty place at Bucky's side. "She finally got what she wanted from you, James. Material to exploit your good looks to her advantage."

 

"Well… I've got enough to go around," he said after a long pause, boyish grin in place. "Where were you this evening, by the way?"

 

"Oh, thinking. Was it that obvious?"

 

"No. I just know you by this point and careful observation is in my nature… or it is now. What's got ya ruminating?"

 

Natasha coaxed the loosened tie from around his neck and folded it up. "I'll tell you later, for now, let's finish cleaning up so our guests can escape this barren wasteland of civilian life. And go change out of those clothes first. That's the only dress getup you have. And you got gravy on the tie."

 

"Yes, _ma'am_. Geez. You get bored and you get cranky."

 

Natasha chunked the tie at him and then wandered back to Clint. "You ready?"

 

"Yup. Let's get loading. Dates! Crap to the SUV."

 

It had been part of their game plan to have a lot of stow-and-go stuff for food, so Clint's gang o' ladies could take leftovers for their trouble. But even so, Sam didn't quite feel like they had enough, but maybe his judgment was off. They were leaving with just as much as they'd brought, and that was after leaving a hundred pounds of equipment and 'care packages' with Sam and Steve and Nat. Once that was all packed up, and everyone was teetering down the steps loaded with food and bags, even still there was way too much food in that apartment. But 'way too much' never did prove to be an accurate assessment with bottomless pits one and two and their super serum metabolisms around.

 

But it was maybe a good thing they had a surfeit of comfort food left over, because seeing off these new friends, watching a real connection to the outside world ship out, was one big fucking bummer.

 

"Look at these lemmings." Maria stood at the passenger door of the SUV's cab. "Pairing off so predictably. It's like a bad sit com episode." She nudged Sam in the ribs and nodded through cab to the other side of the vehicle. "Looks like there's our answer to that. Or… maybe not, it's pretty ambiguous still." After considering Nat and Clint talking into one another's ears but not ever quite betraying their intimacy status, Maria turned to the rest of their peers.

 

"Looks like Steve finally broke through his impairment," Sam said.

 

"Was he worried about… about Peggy Carter?"

 

"Oh, in large part I'd say so, but what I was really talking about was his bashfulness when two x chromosomes were involved." He jerked his chin to where that bashfulness was only partially apparent, Steve carrying on a conversation with only minimal stuttering and blushing.

 

"Well, that might be the cutest thing I've ever heard about our fearless Captain."

 

"And there's your proof," Sam chuckled to himself as the blushing went full tilt crimson after Sharon kissed him on the cheek. "Lucky bastard."

 

"True. Well, you ever think you could use a single drinking buddy once you make it to New York, give me a call. I'll be your _wingman_."

 

Sam snorted. "Yeah, we'll be the total package together."

 

"I'll see you then, Sam. Take care of these bozos-- whoa!" Maria, sitting down in the car, nodded to the side view mirror. Sam leaned in in time to see Kate trying to remove Buck's tonsils with her tongue. "Yowsa," she sighed and shut the door with a shake of her head.

 

Sam stood away, pulling Nat into a side hug as she edged over to him and out of the way of the reversing vehicle. It would be quiet up inside, probably boring. Natasha seemed to be in that sort of mood as well. Steve and Buck were in another place, Sam could hear them reacting to their goodbyes from where he stood.

 

"That… certainly looked… intimate."

 

"She's chewing cinnamon gum."

 

Steve laughed at that, a big, full diaphragm guffaw. "You okay? Feel gross?"

 

"Yeah… I miss girls, Steve…" Sam could hear the gears grinding off-track as Buck backpedaled from that comment. "Nope. No, Bucky, fix yourself first, then the shit you fucked up, then you can think about girls…" A big sigh. "Whew. First kiss in seventy-six years… forgot exactly what I was missing out on… cinnamon chewing gum for one… no, no! Alright, I'm gonna go take a very cold shower, wash the pervert off." He was mumbling more of the same to himself as he headed Sam's way. "She's a kid, Buck, a kid. Don't. Don't… don't think about it."

 

"You okay, Buck?" Sam asked, letting Nat go and heading Steve's way instead.

 

"I miss girls, Sam… they smell so nice, and they're so soft…" He didn't pause for a second, continuing to walk straight inside the apartment building behind Nat and out of earshot. That left just Sam and Steve.

 

"Well, I think Buck's recovered one more piece of his humanity." Sam clapped Steve on the back and stared off with him at the now pinpoints of the SUV's tail lights.

 

"Yep. I'd say so." He waited a few moments. "I got a date."

 

"Hey! Nice! If Buck keeps to the path he's on, he can too. And a statutory rape conviction!"

 

* * *

 

Steve stayed out front with Sam and Natasha for as long as it took to finish tidying up the place. Once that was finished, though, no one especially seemed to be in a mood to be social, whether from visitor-caused exhaustion or withdrawals, so Steve retreated to his and Bucky's room when the rest trickled away to the back. That suited him well enough. He could finally get some reading done and tell Buck about Sharon one on one.

 

He would have to wait on the latter for a bit though. Bucky was still in the shower when Steve shut their door behind him. It looked like maybe Buck had the same idea for the evening. The basket that Sam had gotten for Bucky's knitting stuff and that Natasha had decorated with what she called more gender conventional pictures of sports and outdoors activities, that basket with Bucky's current piece of knitting was waiting on his bed. Wobbles was also there, snoring quietly, curled up on that particular piece of knitting, which Steve honestly could not identify as anything recognizable. Even the dog was worn out by their guests.

 

Not even two words into his first page, Steve was interrupted by Bucky bursting into the room. It looked like he hadn't been bluffing when he'd said he was going to take a cold shower. Buck hopped around the room, pulling underwear on under his towel, teeth chattering and gooseflesh puckering.

 

"Feeling better?" Buck looked up, eyes squinted and jaw slightly opened (and still shivering). Either he'd been lost in thought or he was messing with him. Steve clarified, "Not still thinking about Katie, are--"

 

"No! No." He shut his eyes and shook his head, metal hand held out in front of Steve's face. "No, I had just got that out of my head, focusing on other stuff."

 

"Like what?"

 

"Like what? Oh… other stuff. Thinking about… well, I'd started off trying to figure out when I'd last kissed a woman, you know, to focus on something more appropriate. But then, I was thinking about it, about that time in my red years… and after what Kate and them said a couple days ago, about the HYDRA cells, the _terrorist_ cells, a few other things I hadn't thought about recently popped up, and then all of a sudden it all just slid together and… ta-da…"He splayed his hands out in front of him, staring at them like he could see what he was talking about there in his palms.

 

"What had screamed so loudly before I couldn't process it, what had been programmed deep, so deep I couldn't access it, all those things from the Winter Soldier time fell into line in the middle, in focus, and I could think about it, logically, just like a normal memory. It was the location of a base, a base I'd used on American soil that was never dismantled. A hornet's nest, Steve."

 

Towel tossed over his shoulders, Bucky sat, still staring out in front of him. "As I was thinking more about this base, other things, tangentially related things came to the surface again, then it was all just _there_. Like I hadn't been written over again and again to erase this crap, like I hadn't been programmed not to think about it. It wasn't just data, and now that I can actually _think_ , they all gained significance." Finally, he looked up at Steve, eyes wide and earnest.

 

"They are everywhere, Steve. This domestic terrorism is just the start. There are plans, contingency plans for scenarios like what's happening now, plans I know. Sleeper cells I can activate, or dismantle. War criminals in deep cover, bombs just waiting to have the dust brushed off of them. All this _shit_ HYDRA left as breadcrumbs to keep itself on track even without any true head. Shit I could take care of, Steve."

 

"Now, Bucky, we already said we--"

 

"Listen, Steve, these are mine, my decision to make. I think they're out there for me to atone and prove myself, and even… even if they're not there by some grand design, some higher purpose, I can still make them serve mine. And regardless, I should be the one to clean up this mess, it's partially my responsibility, and what kind of bag of shit would I be if I didn't use my cracked up noggin to help. A gigantic one is the answer."

 

Steve knew where this was going, where this path led. All the same, he offered a different course of action. "That's good news, Buck, you're right. We can make use of this. Why don't you write 'em down, all the HYDRA plans you remember, all the bombs and agents and such, and we'll send Barton or one of the ladies after them?"

 

It was worth a shot. Bucky still responded just as Steve expected, shaking his head as soon as he said 'we'. "I'll write 'em down, but these are _my_ ghosts. I've got to take care of them, me."

 

"Alright. You'll do that. First thing you'll do, we'll do, okay?"

 

He looked Steve over, clearly sizing up the truth of Steve's assurance. "If you say so…" Finally, the inspection ended and Bucky pulled on his sweatshirt, gently moving Wobbles onto his lap and taking up his knitting needle and amorphous blob of yarn. "Well, the last few days were actually not half bad. All things considered."

 

"Yeah? You didn't-- okay, Buck, I can't just keep it to myself anymore… what is that supposed to be?"

 

That earned a blue flash full of offense. "Whaddya mean, 'what's it s'posed to be?' Isn't it obvious? It's a block of knitted… knit… knits… knots? A block of knots? I dunno, damnit. I'm just doing it to do something. S'pose it could be a scarf… eventually. Or a pot holder now…"

 

"Oh! _Alright_ , Buck!"

 

"What are you laughin' at, asshole? I'm over here slaving over your Christmas scarf and you're making fun of me. What an ingrate."

 

"Okay, okay," Steve said through wheezes. "It's a lovely scarf, anyway, back to before. You didn't mind having the others around, then?"

 

"No. No, I liked them being here, I think. Made me nostalgic even. And I liked them, overall. I liked Sharon," he added with a grin in Steve's direction.

"Yeah?" Steve asked, a blush rising gently with the question.

 

"Yeah."

 

"Well, I got a date with her, soon as we're back in public."

 

"You did not." Buck tossed aside his scarf and joined Steve on his bed, clapping him on the shoulder as he sat. "Good job, Steve! Now, just don't get her pregnant, alright?"

 

"Preg--what?!"  

"Well, it's your first time out with her. You really like her. Things get heated up a little, you make a bad choice or two and then, all of a sudden BOOM! She's pregnant."

 

"I don't think that's quite how it works, Buck, but you seem a little familiar with the process. Don't tell me there's some poor seventy-something bastard Barnes we need to go find."

 

"No, no… I don't think so, but it did happen with plenty of the guys overseas. Remember Craigs? Got a girl in France pregnant straight off the ship, didn't even remember her name when she came to tell him. Fucking dumbass, kind of an asshole too. Not really surprising, I guess. So, uh… yeah, don't do that."

 

"You don't have to worry about that with me, Buck. Gosh. I just find it funny, you know, you having the audacity to sit there giving me advice… sentinel of good old-fashioned American values here, being lectured at by a pedophile--ow!"

 

Bucky had nodded along, laughing a little until the pedophile part. Then, he'd punched Steve. "Watch it, pal. I'm not a pedophile. She's… I was busy _not_ thinking about her, dick." He gave Steve another shove for good measure and then slouched back over to his own bed.

 

"But, you know who I _was_ thinking about before…? That Private, over in London… Private… Private…" he snapped his fingers a few times, eyes squeezed shut as if he could force the name out. "Lorraine! Private Lorraine, you remember her? She necked with you until Peggy came in and eeerr! Pew, pew, pew." He mimed gun shots and then grinned at Steve. "Well, she came back looking for you later that evening, did I not tell you that?"

 

Steve scoffed and Bucky's grin grew broader.

 

"Yeah, well… I took care of that for you."

 

"Gee, thanks, Buck."

 

"Oh _, you're welcome_. You know me, fielding those stragglers for you, doing my duty, being a friend. Didn't want you in any more trouble with Peggy, not after she'd already shot at you that day."

 

"Okay, okay, that's enough. Forgot you were a hound dog. Geez, you're just now remembering this stuff? Little Katie Bishop brought all this out? We should have her _grounded_."

 

Buck ignored that jab, scratching at his jaw in contemplation. "Oh, you know, I remembered it here and there, but it didn't come back too bright or seem that important at first. Guess my perception was a little skewed. Though…" That furrow that made Steve's chest hurt reappeared between Bucky's brows, swung them a little upward. He grew more subdued and then admitted, "it's still not a priority though, or all that feasible…"

 

Steve felt helpless. He could only offer empty words for comfort.

 

"We'll see, Buck. We'll see."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, everyone! Now I'm serious when I say it's going to be a while until the next chapter. This one's enormous, though, so it might hold you over hopefully. Again, Higher Functions block in a few weeks; it'll start off with SELF RESPECT.
> 
> Hugs and smooches, my lovely readers! Each one of you make my day when I check my stats page!


	16. SELF RESPECT

"Does anyone else feel like they're dealing with a crappy hangover? And're a little ticked off about it, 'cause they didn't do anything yesterday to earn it?" Judging by the atmosphere of the room Sam had just walked into, he was preaching to the choir. "I mean, _I'm_ not my usual chipper self. I kinda feel the urge to slap all y'all in the face and run away back to D.C.."

 

"Like we're all pleased as punch to be lookin' at your sorry mug."

 

"Well, someone woke up on the wrong side of 1950 this morning…"

 

"Stop it, you two." Steve erased madly at his sketch and, giving up, wiped a line of graphite across his forehead. "But, you have a point, Sam. I can't say that I exactly remember feeling hung over like you're describing--"

 

"I can, but it's not like this. This is bored, listless, cabin fever bullshit. _That_ is just got run over by a tank and now have to write a letter using just chopsticks and a lump of charcoal. Also, that urge to smack everybody and run away, it's mutual."

 

"Thanks, Bucky, but what I was going to say is that it does feel distinctly like someone has let the air out of the balloon in here."

 

Nat wet a towel and handed it to Steve. "Ennui, boys. We've got a bad case of the withdrawal depression. Loads of stimulation, a sense of community and belonging for a few days and then _snap_ back to just the four of us cold turkey, leaves you feeling dissatisfied and restless."

 

"Post-party depression."

 

"Yes, Wilson. Thank you for that invigorating pun." Taking back the towel that Steve had done nothing with, Nat scrubbed the smear from his face. "We just need something to distract us from how lackluster the routine will seem from now on. To make the tedium less obvious."

 

"You bored out of your gourd too?"

 

"You could say that. I sense that might not be the case universally, but finding a distraction should help with everyone's source of dissatisfaction."

 

"Great, but how long will we be treating symptoms instead of addressing the source?" Steve leaned away from the towel and, finding it soiled, searched for the source of the smearage. Buck grabbed Steve's sleeve and turned it over, looking to Nat next as Steve started scrubbing at the pencil dust there.

 

"Translation: how much longer am I going to be the reason you guys are quarantined from the rest of the world?"

 

Nat looked around the table and then simply shrugged.

 

"What? What does that mean?"

 

"Well, that's not really up to me. It depends on when _you're_ ready, and you're the only one who can make that happen."

 

"But what's the rubric?"

 

"Again, not up to me."

 

"So… it's up to _me_?..." Buck looked truly shocked. "Then why in the hell are we still here?"

 

"Do you feel like you're ready to be out there?" Nat pointed to the front window with all its street noise, then to the television with its daily regurgitation of bad news. "Without this hidey-hole and adult supervision keeping you in check? Because once we leave here the hand-holding can't go on, we have our own lives to sort out and business to attend to. It'll be just you versus that whole big world, with occasional help from one or two of us, when _you_ call _us_. It's all up to you. Are you ready for that?"

 

Buck looked back and forth and then back again. His face curdled like milk left out in the sun. "No." He let his head drop to the table behind his arms. "Not without adult supervision."

 

"So we stay in the nursery a while longer." She stood and headed for her room. "And we find ways to mitigate the boredom. Exempla gratia, a little present from Stark I forgot to show you guys."

 

Stark… Stark. That reminded Sam about his present from Stark. His beautiful new rig, that was just going to start gathering dust, but whatever, that's not the point. He needed to thank Stark for that beautiful new rig, but how? Do you send a thank you note to a billionaire superhero? Would it even make it to his mail sorters? Maybe shoot him an email, but again, one in billions. Maybe Steve would know. Maybe Steve could text him for Sam… but not from a secure location. Ugh. What a pain in the ass-- Barton! Yes, Clint could carry the message. A thank you note it was. Wait, Nat had a thingy. It was a special thingy to do a special thing. Pay attention, Sam.

 

"…with instructions and everything. I feel like it was a special commission."

 

Buck was sitting up again, trying to not look too interested. The whole arms crossed, lips pursed thing was counteracted by him nearly leaning out of his chair for a better look. "What sorta commission, besides special?"

 

"I don't know. It wasn't for _me_."

 

"As if you didn't open it," Buck scoffed and scooted his chair around to read over Steve's shoulder.

 

"Yeah, well… it's not for me to say. Steve?"

 

Despite all the frowning and the sighing and basset-hound eyes Steve had been throwing around that day, especially when the news was on in the background, he cracked them a genuine Rogers grin just then. He handed Buck the instructions and reached for the package they were regarding. It was a smallish parcel, about the size of a box you'd ship a coffee mug in, nothing extravagant unless Stark had figured out how to compress space-time. Sam wouldn't have put it past him.

 

"What's an… ionic micro-particulate graphic… application… wait, is this for my arm?" Buck was out of his seat so fast his chair clattered over.

 

Nat gave a little grin and took the gadget freshly removed from the box in hand. "It's a pigment delivering system pre-programmed to Steve's design," she said, turning it over and pressing a small button. A holographic display projected from one end of it.

 

"Now, I recognize that," Sam chuckled, holding his hand under its beam. For a moment he could hold a modified Cap shield. This one just had less bands around the star. "Nice. How's it work?"

 

"Point… and click." Nat mimed pressing another button, aiming the device at Buck's arm. "After we apply a solvent to the… original brand."

 

"Well, what're ya waiting for, Buck? I can't believe you're just standing there, gawking. Let's do this. No more nail polish twice a week."

 

Buck smirked and set aside the instructions, leaning over to set back up his chair. "What if I like the nail polish?"

 

"What if we don't want you to be ashamed of your arm anymore?" After waiting for the sincerity of that remark to set in, Steve got that glint to his eye he always had when he was being particularly troublesome. "What? You changed your mind? You scared?"

 

Buck knew that glint all too well, it seemed. He scoffed and shook his head, pulling off his shirt as he did. "You just couldn't claim me for your side fast enough, could ya?"

 

"And there goes the shirt. Mark Friday down for its second strip session! Can we go half a day without you exposing yourself, man?"

 

"Don't act like you don't like it."

 

Steve shook his head through Sam and Buck's banter. But, he found them entertaining all the same. That smile of his hadn't budged yet. "Okay… I'm shaking the solvent. Natasha, you have the cloth?"

 

"Right here. Pour it on the cloth and I'll apply it."

 

Buck took a step back as Nat approached with her rubber gloves and butcher's apron, though it was probably the new addition of the lab goggles that had him nervous. "Uh… should I be more… not half naked for this?"

 

"No, no, no. You're fine. The solvent just shouldn't touch skin."

 

"Yeah… I have skin. See all this? Skin." He took another step away from her as she tried again to close the distance.

 

"But we're not coming near the skin part of you with this. It'll be fine."

 

"If you say so… but, uh, how exactly is this working?"

 

Nat held the rag to Buck's left arm and gently began applying it to the red star. Sam could already see the tinting fading. "It's a chemical reaction. Something to do with breaking bonds and soluble particles. It's in the instructions."

 

If that made any sense to Buck, it certainly didn't do anything to assure him. All the same, though, he stayed put and allowed Nat to scrub the last of the denial of his personal liberty from his life. "Wow," he said after he was gone, "I almost feel lighter."

 

"Symbols carry weight, Buck. Trust me. Wearing one can be a greater burden than anything you physically carry. Are you sure you're ready to exchange one for another?" Steve set aside the solvent and pointed to the red, white and blue projection on their table. "We can wait a while, if you want."

 

One look at his shoulder and Buck shook his head. "Nah, feels naked like that. Do it. Brand me up real nice for America. Load on the stars and stripes and shit."

 

"Classy."

 

"I know. I'm just the type you want wearing our nation's livery."

 

"We're proud to have you, Bucky. You know that." Steve clapped him in the shoulder, patriot face engaged. Sam felt the uncontrollable need to clear his throat, maybe make a joke.

 

"No, now don't go and get all dewy-eyed on me, Steve. I'm still plenty fucked up. Nothing to be proud about." But Buck took care of that. Lightened the mood right up. "Just finally getting that tattoo I really regret removed. And replacin' it with one I might also eventually regret. Just the kind of knuckle-headed shit you'd expect from me. Alright. Come on. I'm ready. Stamp me."

 

When Steve didn't pick up the device quickly enough, Buck retrieved it and began aligning its projection with his arm. Seeing it there, though, must have freaked him out. Because, his eyes were all dark and scrunchy as Steve took it and actually aligned it for application. When the gadget magnetically attached to Buck's shoulder with a metal plink, Buck suddenly stepped away.

 

"Wait, wait, wait. I know you and me, we had a conversation before, Steve. So, I hope you remember, this little comradery we have with the cutesy almost matching shields and shit, that's it. It's a nod to you, that I support you --because I do, one-hundred percent-- but that's as far as it goes. No official affiliation, no obligating me to patriotic shit, none'a that. Agreed? And now we've got witnesses."

 

"Just a rebranding, Buck. For your image."

 

"Yeah, big red star doesn't really say good guy in this country these days…"

 

"Especially if it's on the arm of some mysterious superspy with a big ass gun."

 

"Okay, good. You've got it, you've all got it. I'm not a sidekick. I'm not a mascot, or a subordinate. I just… it's solidarity and rebranding."

 

"Yes, Buck. No strings or expectations attached." Steve nodded and reached for the device. Buck stayed put but still eyed the thing with some hesitation.

 

"Okay…"

 

"And if you don't like the repercussions there's always more solvent."

 

"Right. Okay, not permanent, just more durable. 'Cause, I can't be you, can't be compared to you. We're completely different operators, you and I, and I don't want the whole symbol status with the--"

 

"I know, Buck."

 

"Not worthy of that with all my past--"

 

"I _know_ , Bucky."

 

"Different approaches, different goals, different methods--"

 

"Bucky. We _know_. You have an operative identity already, one you want to rehabilitate, not replace. Still the Winter Soldier, I remember that. You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with, including this."

 

"As long as we're clear…"

 

"No assumptions, no small print. Just a different star."

 

"Okay… I'm good with that." Still sucking on his lip like this whole thing made him nervous, Buck nonetheless held his shoulder, now without all the fidgeting, right in front of Steve. "Give me my new-old star."

 

Sam edged around to peer over Steve shoulder. There was a little view screen on this end of the thing, showing the joints of Buck's arm now colored red, white and blue with this insignia. It looked about lined up. Steve adjusted it a micrometer and then clicked his tongue.

 

"And I just press the button."

 

"I think so," Nat replied, looking over the instructions. "It should take under ten seconds, it says here. Then it's done. No flaking, no peeling, chemically bonded insignia. The application unit will detach when it's finished, so just be ready to catch it."

 

"Alright, and starting… now." Steve pressed the button and dropped his hands below the unit to catch it. The process all in all was very fast, mostly silent and just generally low key. The only thing was Buck's face.

 

"You alright?"

 

He blinked a few times, head quirked to the side a little. "Yeah, it's just… interesting…"

 

"You can _feel_ it?"

 

"Mm-hmm, like a little, almost pleasant, electric massage--oh, and now it's over." He looked down at his shoulder just before the gadget detached with a snap and hiss and fell away.

 

Steve caught it with a grin. "Oh, that looks great, Bucky."

 

"Oh, wow. Yeah, I like it."

 

"Very clean."

 

"Yeah? It looks good?" He asked, heading for the nearest mirror. "Let's see…" After considering it for a minute, stepping back and stepping closer again, Buck eventually said, "Okay. Okay, _this_ star I can live with. This I like." With one more check on the new graffiti, this time not in the mirror, he headed back to the table and pulled his shirt on. "Okay. I'm rebranded. Whatcha got next on the docket for distraction, Romanova?"

 

* * *

 

Wobbles was being odd. Arguably, the little dog was always a little odd, with her too long legs, and too big ears, and sad whimpery manner, but today she was being extra odd. And extra needy. Usually, after her time with them all, she would content herself with cuddling up by the nearest person who was stationary. Today, however, she was settling for nobody but Bucky, which wasn't working in her favor because he was currently hanging upside down from a doorway.

 

Steve looked over to check on her again, causing his character to break into a million pieces on the television screen.

 

"Pay attention, Steve. You're wasting lives."

 

"It's just a game, Sam," Steve responded and continued looking at Wobbles. She was seated just below Buck, staring up at him as he counted with each sit up. Every few seconds she would whine. "Buck, I think the dog needs a trip outside."

 

"I'll--eighty-one--take her--eighty-two--in a--eighty-three--minute."

 

"I can take her," Natasha offered, dropping out of their game and grabbing her sweater. "Come here, little one."

 

But even when Nat picked her up, Wobbles was not content. She whined and wiggled until Nat put her back down, returning just to watch Bucky again.

 

"Huh. Guess she doesn't need to go out."

 

Bucky paused, hanging in the air and reaching out his hand. "I'm okay, girl. See? Just upside-down for a little while. Go sit with the others. Go on." He scratched under her chin as well as he could from that angle and then pointed to the couch. "They'll pick you up. I'll be done it a little while. Call her, would one of you?"

 

"Come here, Wobbles."

 

After another doleful whimper, she tucked her tail and limped over to the group on the couch. Natasha picked her up and settled her in her lap, re-entering the game afterwards. "We're just as good as Bucky, don't worry. It's probably best that you're over here with us, in case that frame-bar gives out. He would crush you."

 

"Callin' me fat?" Bucky asked through counts.

 

"Yep."

 

The whining may have stopped for now, but the behavior still bothered Steve for some reason that he couldn't quite put his finger on. He pondered over that, dying another two times in the game.

 

"Steve! Seriously, get your head out of your butt. You're wasting all our shit."

 

"Sorry. Sorry." It was the second day in a row that she'd been especially clingy with Buck, but nothing in the routine had changed. It hadn't been like when he'd had his extra bad spat of nightmares and she'd been relegated to Natasha for a few nights. She was sleeping in her little bed at the foot of his still. Maybe she was getting sick. That thought made Steve himself feel ill. Losing that little dog would crush Bucky.

 

"Go! Go! Smash that! Smash that!"

 

Steve checked back in and did as told, actually contributing to the game for once that evening. Behind him, Bucky dropped to the ground and started pull ups instead. Now that Steve thought about it, Bucky was acting odd too. He'd been extra fidgety, not able to sit and do quieter activities for too long at a time, usually spending a good chunk of the evenings using the doorframe bar.

 

"That's… odd," Steve mumbled to himself, mashing the buttons on his controller and sky-rocketing their points. He would keep an eye on that. Something had to be bothering Bucky to make him hyperactive like that. He was usually more laid back, or more inclined to being able to be laid back. High strung he was not.

 

"Nat! We said no cheats!"

 

"We were losing, Wilson. I do not lose."

 

"We'll it doesn't feel like winning when you cheat!"

 

Hopefully, it wasn't anything to do with his confidence, as if his new shoulder insignia put some pressure on him. Hopefully, it wasn't guilt either, about the HYDRA cells operating out in the world. Though, it would be worse if it were because of restlessness about those cells. When Bucky got restless, he tended to get extra rash; his realism never saved him from being a hothead. He could be expending extra energy from feeling caged too. It all pointed to not so great underlying issues. Steve was displeased and would have to talk to Bucky about it at some point. For now, he had to beat this boss.

 

"There! There! Its weak spot, aim for the weak spot!"

 

"Where's my controller? I can help with this, the trick's--"

 

"Dude!"

 

Bucky had just sat down next to Sam, who had promptly elbowed him away.

 

"Get outta here, go shower or something. You're all sweaty."

 

"I put a shirt back on. Come on, where's my controller?"

 

"Seriously, you're moist. Get that shit away from me. Nobody wants that dripping on them."

 

"Tssh, fine. But I coulda helped." Buck got back up and scooped Wobbles up with him. "Come on, girl, I'll give you a bath too."

 

Bucky was passed out, face down in his pillow, when Steve came in a few hours later. Wobbles too, fur all floofed up from her bath, was snoring quietly in her bed. It looked like Bucky had attempted some knitting and then simply hadn't been able to keep his eyes open. The yarn and needles were scattered over the bed and ground by his hands. Steve gathered them up and stowed them away, throwing a blanket over his friend in the process. The lump of a scarf still looked unrecognizable.

 

Not quite tired, Steve spent some time sketching, then reading and finally stared at the ceiling until he fell asleep. It wasn't until a few hours later, when he woke up thirsty, that he realized he'd forgotten his glass of water out front. In the deep dark of the middle of the night, he couldn't find where ever he had left it, so Steve headed for the cabinets for a fresh glass. The refrigerator dispenser was clicking and humming, making Steve feel sleepy again, that was until he heard the front door click. He turned, ready to use the glass as a projectile, only to freeze upon catching sight of Bucky.

 

He glanced from him to their room, back to him and again to the room. Was he crazy, or had he just walked past him as a Bucky lump, complete with headphones and mild snoring? He wasn't that out of it. He'd definitely noticed that. What was Bucky doing out here?

 

Bucky, meanwhile, pulled off his hood and ran his hand through his hair, laughing nervously. "I wasn't killing people, if that's what you're all twisted up about over there, promise… well, I wasn't killing _good_ people, I promise."

 

Was it a dummy in his bed? Was it a dummy he'd tucked in with his headphones on it and had somehow rigged up to snore? "Did you record yourself snoring?" It was just baffling.

 

"No, I did," Natasha's voice answered from the hallway. She appeared with it a few short seconds later, wearing clothes she'd clearly pilfered from their laundry: Bucky's sweat shirt he'd torn their room apart looking for, Sam's pants, a pair of Steve's socks (Christmas-themed with snowmen from Clint). "Though, to be fair, it was all Barton's idea… that lasted all of a day."

 

"Two days," Buck corrected. "And is that my sweatshirt? I've been looking for that…"

 

"Oops."

 

"Recorded snoring…" The gears in Steve's head were warming up, but slowly. "What? What is going on, you two?"

 

"Uh…" Buck swept a hand through his hair again, pulled at his chin, went through all his predictable mannerisms to stall so he could come up with a yarn.

 

Natasha did no better for once. "Well, you see, Steve--"

 

"Oh, my God, you're not!" He rounded on Bucky. "Please tell me you're not sneaking out at night, dressed like a thug, taking care of Winter Soldier ghosts." Of course he was, it all made sense. Wobbles was clingy because he left during the night, she noticed and wanted to make up for that during the day. Buck was antsy because he was guilty about lying, and was using that energy to train because he wanted to be in top form for his night missions. That was exactly what he was doing.

 

"No, Rogers, that's not what he doing, are you Barnes? No, he's--"

 

"No, that's pretty much exactly what I'm doing."

 

Natasha rubbed her face and sighed. Bucky only shrugged.

 

"You caught me."

 

"You couldn't even try? We went through all this work to make this believable."

 

"Eh. Now I don't have to lie to him. It's better this way."

 

"You mean you planned to get caught."

 

Steve looked between them, trying to catch up. "So, you're sneaking out, lying to us, putting yourself in danger? Really, Bucky? I thought we'd talked about this." Now that he was up to speed on the situation and fully awake, Steve was profoundly disappointed. In both of them. "And Natasha! You too? More lies, more sneaking?"

 

"Whoa, this is on me, Steve. And it's my decision how I deal with this. I know that we talked, but I decided I didn't want-- no, _couldn't_ wait to deal with these things." He pulled off the ball cap he was wearing, set it aside with his leather jacket. Next came off the sweatshirt and he kicked off his lace-ups.

 

"I know who I am and what I've done." He gestured down over himself, nodded to his left. "But to accept that and the _reality_ that comes with it, I can't just sit here with my thumb up my ass. I have to _do_ something, and as it turns out I'm very qualified for _doing_." Now he began unloading weapons.

 

"If I'm going to live with myself and what being here now means about my pasts, then I have to act, for other people's respect, sure," a metallic twang rang out as Bucky tapped a gun to his shoulder, "to live up to this, but mostly so I can look myself in the mirror and respect who I see staring back." His eye found Steve's and locked him with a sincerity and earnestness that made Steve keep quiet. "And this is how I'm doing that."

 

"And what _exactly_ is 'this'?"

 

Bucky shrugged his shoulder and waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, you know… the ghosts, stuff I'm remembering."

 

" _Bucky_ …"

 

He crumpled under Steve's glare. "Fine, if you must know, I've been taking the van," keys jangled as he tossed them to Nat, "parking a few miles out of a spot I remember, reconning, and then taking care of it. One spot a night, last night and tonight. Nothing big. Nothing anybody'll notice. And I feel better for doing it. Knowing about them and doing nothing was going to eat me alive, just like it would have you, Steve."

 

He was right, the knowing and sitting around doing nothing about it wasn't something Steve had ever been particularly good at doing. In fact, he'd historically been very bad at doing that. "Fine," he conceded the point, perhaps too easily. "Let's just say I get where you're coming from Buck, I do, but there's got to be a better way. Don't sneak around, take advantage of having us around to help you. I can come--"

 

"No, Steve. I already explained this to you. These are mine. My atonement. And besides, I am taking advantage of having you all around. Natasha's been my hub support both nights."

 

Steve turned to her next. "Yeah, about that, Natasha… you know our situation, Bucky's situation, the national situation. How could you allow, much less _enable_ this?"

 

"I wanted the same, in his place… my ledger. I could relate."

 

"I can relate too, but I can also see that it's just, flat out, not a _good_ idea. It's emotionally driven and probably not all that logically sound. You could get hurt, Buck. You could compromise yourself, your new identity. You could get caught, by the authorities or by HYDRA, not that I doubt your skill, but with no backup and only radio contact, it's not good planning. And besides, how can you fully atone if no one knows that you're doing this, if you're taking out these skeletons under dark, in secret? I know you don't want the attention, but the amassing of criminal takedowns is going to be noticed, and then what? Someone else takes the credit? That's not why you're doing this, but what happens--"

 

Bucky was shaking his head through the whole thing, but finally held up his hands at that point. "You can philosophize all you want on this, give me advice, try to mollycoddle me, all that shit, Steve, but I'm still going to do whatever the fuck I want to do. And, as for you, you can't rationalize stopping me, because it's _not wrong_ what I'm doing. You just think it's risky. I've gotten advice for both courses of action, and this time I'm taking the one that's not yours, sorry, pal."

 

He didn't like it, but Steve had to admit Bucky wasn't wrong about this. Just pigheaded and rash. "I still don't think it's a good plan."

 

"And that's fine. It might not be, but it's what I chose." Bucky pulled a grin and grabbed Steve around the shoulder. "Now you know how I feel."

 

"Oh, yeah? What about?"

 

"It's no fun being the one worried about your stubborn best friend all that time, is it?"

 

"No. I'll try to remember this feeling next time."

 

"Don't worry, Steve. Unlike you I'm being realistic about this, researching, covering all my bases, setting contingency plans and having escape routes. I'll back down when I know it's above my head, which it hasn't been yet. And I haven't been noticed, I won't be. I'm careful about cameras and witnesses. You'll see, this is gonna work, without anyone even knowing about it."

 

* * *

 

 

" _Starting right off with our headline news item for today: late last night a report came in to the station independently, and later through the authorities, about an interesting development in the fight against the underground crime syndicate operating somewhere just outside of downtown. Our field journalist, Cindy Yates, is on the scene._

 

_"Hi, Ben, I'm here, four blocks east of Main Street, possibly at the headquarters of the up until now mysterious crime ring that has lately been terrorizing this town…"_

 

Everyone in the room abruptly sat up, like dogs with their ears pricked to a prey sound.

 

"Sam, turn it up, please."

 

"You know it."

 

All gathered around the television, one person was notably absent. He sat instead on the window bench, shoulders hunkered up around his ears, hand over his face. The reporter continued:

 

" _As you all know, we've been keeping an eye out on this area, sure that the criminal activity springing up after the nationwide disablement of S.H.I.E.L.D., the defunct agency responsible for internal counter-terrorism among other things, would eventually come to a head here, at its epicenter for our region. And as of this last night, that vigilance has finally paid off. Corroborating reports inform us of a disturbance here, on the corner of Jackson and Park, beginning at one-fifteen and resulting in the incapacitation of twelve suspects, now in custody, as well as the raid of the facility you see still standing behind me. Investigation has revealed that this inconspicuous string of stores currently in renovation is actually a front for a large-scale weapons-trafficking operation. It appears that besides illegal supplying of guns and the like to local crime syndicates, this facility was also responsible for the distribution of bio- and nuclear-grade explosives; that is, dirty bombs as our informants at the police department call them._

 

" _Incredible and unsettling as that information is alone, the true interest in this story lies in the actual raid of this center. As I said before, twelve suspects were incapacitated and apprehended, and in addition, the entire center's product stores were destroyed. Investigators hypothesize by some industrial grade tool, leaving guns and bombs broken and gutted. Furthermore, this was all carried out, our witnesses tell us, by a single individual…"_

 

Behind them, Bucky groaned.

 

"… _You heard right, and if you're just tuning in, Cathy Yates is reporting on the successful raid on a crime syndicate gun warehouse by a single vigilante. Back to you, Cathy._

 

" _Thanks, Bob. Here now with me is one witness to the event, Laura Han. Laura, why don't you tell us about the one-on-twelve knock-out brawl you saw this morning?_

 

" _Well, I was walking home and it was late… I don't know what happened, but I got turned around and ended up out here. Anyway, I was trying to find a bus stop when I noticed someone on the roof over there. I mean, at first, I thought I was just imagining it, because it was so fast, but as I was watching they jumped down and under a street light. That's when I knew it was a person. It was late, though, so I blew it off as something weird, like what happens around here at night, and turned back to the bus stop. Then the noise started. There were yells and bangs and some cracks that I didn't know until afterwards was fighting. When I looked back, this one guy was in the middle of this mob of men with guns and stuff, but he was totally fine. In fact, he beat the crap out of these other guys. It was like a movie._

 

_"And could you describe the single assailant, Ms. Han?_

 

_"Oh, well, not from that distance. You see, it was a block away or so and it was pretty dark. And then, somebody ran past me and knocked me down. By the time I looked back up there was just a heap of bodies on the ground. Thank goodness they weren't dead, talk about nightmares. Yeah, so, I was a little dazed and when I got back to my feet I realized all my stuff, my belongings from my purse, had fallen out and were blowing around everywhere. So, I was pretty busy trying to find and catch all that stuff._

 

_"And then what happened, Ms. Han?_

 

_"I, uh, well I was getting my stuff together and another person ran past, really fast like. I didn't see them, but I'm assuming it was the same guy who came back a few seconds later and helped me pick my stuff up._ "

 

"BUCKY!"

 

"I know…" he groaned back at all their consternation.

 

_"Can you describe this person?_

 

_"Oh, yeah. It was a man, youngish but not too young--_

 

_"Would you say twenties, thirties?_

 

_"Early thirties probably, white, tallish, muscular--_

 

_"Can you give a more detailed estimate as to height and build?_

 

_"Uh… six foot? Maybe two-thirty, like I said, muscular but not like huge. He was wearing just normal clothes: jeans, Chucks, a hoodie and a ball cap and a leather jacket."_

 

"Well, you blew it with this one. She's got you just about down pat, Buck."

 

His face was in his palms. "I thought she was too drunk to remember…"

 

" _Did you see his face?_

 

" _Oh, yeah…_ "

 

"Jesus."

 

" _Brown hair, blue eyes, nice smile. He called me ma'am and then walked away. He was kinda dreamy actually…"_

 

"What was that you were saying this morning, about not being noticed?"

 

"She was falling over in her heels, clearly drunk. I didn't know that she'd been knocked over by the one that was trying to escape. I just thought she was stumbling shit-faced. What was I s'posed to do? Just leave her there with her shit all over the street and sidewalk? She would've been mugged, or hit by a car, or worse!"

 

"So, you lied last night."

 

"No, I just thought… look, I'll be more low-key next time. Promise. No more fraternizing with the civilians."

 

"I told you this was a bad idea."

 

"Aw, she thought you were dreamy, Buck."

 

"Not now, Sam."

 

"Yeah, hush, guys. They're still talking."

 

" _…of now our witness here is the only evidence available concerning the identity of this vigilante. No footage has been captured of the individual in question, unfortunately, though authorities are awaiting testimony from the weapons dealers currently in custody, once they regain consciousness. According to investigators, no fingerprints or other evidence of our vigilante's presence was found on the scene and attempts at identifying him by description alone are continuing to prove futile._ "

 

"You got lucky there."  

"Yeah, lucky that there are several thousand men who fit the description your little damsel in distress gave out."

 

"Yeah, dreamy's not exactly an unique identifier. Thank God she didn't see my arm." Despite his cover being compromised to some degree, Bucky was already smirking again. "I told you I took care of the cameras."

 

"But not so much the witnesses."

 

He shrugged. "She's harmless."

 

" _Again, in brief, a weapons' dealing headquarters was raided this morning, leaving product destroyed and operators apprehended, by a single vigilante. Investigators are still attempting to ascertain his identity but the description is as follows…_ "

 

"So, you're not deterred by this?"

 

"Nope. Live and learn."

 

Steve sighed.

 

" _…no distinguishing marks, scars or tattoos…_ "

 

"Ha! That's what they think."

 

" _If you have any information on this individual, either whereabouts or identity, please contact the authorities at…_ "

 

"It's weird that they're all up in arms about who you are, Buck. You'd think they'd thank you and then get onto catching the rest of this crime syndicate, like who these guys were supplying to."

 

"It was HYDRA, and, uh, yeah… priorities seem a bit skewed."

 

Natasha stepped in. "After the debacle with S.H.I.E.L.D. their priorities are always going to be weighted towards knowing who the players are in any conflict, good or bad. Secrets have suddenly lost their allure."

 

She took the remote and changed the channel. "Even if this had been taken down by a known agent, like Barton or anyone ex-S.H.I.E.L.D., the media'd still be having a field day about whose side they were really on and who they're working for. It's almost better that Bucky's a no-name vigilante, so for now the pressure's just on _who_ he actually is, rather than on his intentions, motivations, and affiliations. Notice how, like Bucky pointed out, this was a HYDRA base, and yet that's not what's being reported on.

 

"You know why? Because the police and the FBI know that it's HYDRA splinter cells perpetrating this activity, they don't need to investigate into that to put their pieces on the board. But they don't know the other side and it's going to drive them crazy. Priorities are readjusting now, it's the knowing who's involved that they're caring about, not the control of the involvement. This is what happens when a people lose their intelligence infrastructure, priorities skew and insecurities rule actions."

 

A suffocating quiet settled on the group.

 

"That's… that's not good."

 

"No, it isn't. And that's why, I'm sorry, Steve, but that's why I think Bucky needs to keep doing what he's doing. If he's the only way any productive attention is going to be directed towards the actual problem, then he might as well continue to be that conduit. Two birds, one stone. HYDRA facilities and operators can be taken out and priorities can be redirected indirectly. Maybe eventually the truth about the quote-unquote bad guys will be brought to light. Just keep yourself a mystery, Barnes, because as soon as they even remotely figure out what kind of person you are doing this, that's going to be all they talk about. And all the authorities are going to pursue."

 

"That's the plan."

 

Steve had kept quiet since Bucky had insisted that this in no way was going to change his mind about things. Now he heaved another sigh and nodded. "I can't believe I'm about to say this, but I agree. This, as disturbing as it is, proves that times are changing… Now is certainly not the time for Captain America to introduce a new, mysterious teammate. We have to preserve your anonymity, Bucky, for the sake of everyone involved. But all the same, we can't let the true problem remain unaddressed, because priorities are being perverted. You have to continue, but with more support, more remote aid, and more planning." He stared at Bucky until the latter nodded. "It also means that we're going to have to be careful when we return to action, Natasha. Our presence… there's going to be contention about it."

 

"Undoubtedly."

 

"Uh… I hate to be _that guy_ , but… what about me?"

 

"Have any secrets you wanna keep under wraps?"

 

Sam shook his head. "Nope."

 

"Good. Because we'll still need you, Sam. And, insensitive as this is gonna sound, you'll take some of the pressure off Natasha's and my return."

 

"And add good press. A recruited vet with a distinguished service record is going to be a feather in the cap of superspies and supersoldiers everywhere. You'll make our breed look good."

 

"Aw, shucks."

 

"And if Bucky continues to be this popular with the news outlets, he might eventually end up doing the same. But emphasis here on _eventually_.The atmosphere towards our kind needs to de-charge significantly."

 

"Fine by me. I don't want the attention."

 

"So, this works for everyone? This is the plan?" Steve looked around the room for confirmation.

 

"We three lay low while Buck goes out to anonymously stir the pot."

 

"And we provide backup if and when he needs it."

 

"But we don't blow cover, because that would be bad."

 

"Exactly. Okay. There it is." He turned finally to Bucky. "And you're okay with this?"

 

Bucky scoffed. "I get to do what I wanted to do to begin with, the way I wanted to do it. Yeah, I'd say I'm okay with this."

 

"Okay. Then I think that maybe you should be the Winter Soldier when you go back out there."

 

"As in… arm and all?"

 

"Yes."

 

Eyebrows met hairlines all around at Steve's assertion. Only Natasha reserved any reaction.

 

"Have you lost your marbles?"

 

"No. The Winter Soldier is a mysterious identity, but it has breadcrumbs left in the intelligence community. People will find things about your operative code-name that point back to HYDRA and a whole bunch of other stuff. Once Natasha removes any mention of your real name from the files, then all Winter Soldier will be to anyone is a signpost to the information we need the public to focus on. More than that though, you'll start rehabilitating that identity so that once you're ready to publicly join… the rest of us, you'll have a good reputation and the fallout won't be so severe."

 

"And beyond that, it'll bring forward the shades of grey the authorities are operating in," Natasha added. "At first, it'll make sense: they're hunting an international criminal, a terrorist. But then people will begin asking, what is it this international criminal is doing by taking down domestic terrorists? What could be so bad that a _criminal_ is acting out against it? I agree with Steve. This is the best course of action." She found her laptop and began typing furiously. "If they can manipulate public sentiment, so can we. And we'll do them one better, we'll manipulate public interest as well and to their favor. This way the people are dictating what they know and their intelligence priorities. It's ideal."

 

"Wow… my secret atonement missions suddenly became much more… important. Uh… okay." Bucky ran a hand through his hair and swallowed audibly. "That's right, _this_ is how pressure feels."

 

"There. Okay, James Buchanan Barnes is gone from the records. The Winter Soldier is a literal ghost once again." Natasha closed her computer and folded her hands. "Ready to take advantage of that?"

 

Bucky's brow creased. "A fresh start for both 'me's… yeah, I suppose so."

 

"Good. First thing's first: we have a red star to paint back on."

 

* * *

 

"Are you _singing_?" Even over the comm link, Bucky's voice dripped with attitude. Natasha could hear the sneer.

 

"No." She was.

 

"Well, stop. I'm ten yards out and you're distracting me."

 

It was her second night in a row of remote support and, as blisteringly thrilling as listening on the other end of the action was, Natasha was bored of it. The night before, she'd literally listened to Bucky dig a hole for two hours. Yawning, she put her mic on mute and turned back up the youtube video she'd been watching. It was a ballet, one of her personal favorites by Petipa, whose prima ballerina was an old acquaintance of Natasha's. And she was thoroughly disappointing her. Natasha shook up her brand new bottle of Santa Baby red nail polish, a new color to get into the holiday spirit, and set to work on her toenails.

 

"Ugh. Olga, how could you? You had the opportunity, and look what you've done. You've shamed the Mistress, Minkus and Pepita all in one dance." She clicked her tongue, tutting as skirts spun and legs arched. "So sloppy. _Dum-dum, dum-dum, dum-dum-dum-dum-dum, now you're just somebody that I used to know_." Singing turned to humming and morphed between the song now stuck in her head, and the melodies of the ballet coming from her speakers.

 

In one ear, Bucky was talking to himself. He did this, Natasha had noticed. "…Guard left. Camera right and up top. Two entrances, both watched. Is that an entry keypad? What the fuck is going on here?"

 

Natasha let him keep on and switched to her other foot. "Yean, you're a gun for hire now. If you were an operative you would have maintained your cover better as a dancer, and a dancer would have known that those two cabrioles were meant to be grande, not petite. Pitiful."

 

"Talking to yourself?" There was suddenly a Clint in the front window where before there'd not been. He shut it quickly, blocking any more freezing wind and snow from sneaking inside.

 

"No, talking to Olga Petrova. I knew her from before. She's really a disgrace now." She turned the computer so Clint could see the abomination of dance as he sat.

 

"Wow, horrible."

 

Ignoring the sarcasm, Natasha continued, "so, how is it you can come in through that shut and locked window?"

 

"I rigged it. You on a comm?"

 

"Yes, Barnes is in the field. Tonight's a…" she pulled up the list Bucky had compiled. "Tonight's a safe house for three old HYDRA scientists. Should be a fast one."

 

"Nice. Buchanan, what's going on? You peeping on some old people?"

 

"Technically, they're younger than me. And you know how it is, I take what I can get."

 

Clint snickered his approval and switched his earpiece off speaker. "Alright, give me the rundown." 

 

"Well, they're making it pretty hard for me to get off tonight. Lotsa security. Maybe too much…"

 

"You should take care of that. The audience doesn't want an audience. No meta-voyeurism."

 

Natasha shook her head and pulled the laptop closer. Men. She started on her left hand, looking up at the sound of a bedroom door. Steve crept around the corner a moment later. He looked immediately disappointed.

 

"Oh, hi, Clint," he said, like a wilted flower. "How's it going?"

 

Clint put a hand over his mic. "Thought I was Barnes, huh?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"Can't sleep when he's gone?"

 

"Now that I know he's doing this, no… makes me nervous."

 

"You could always listen in with me if you wanted to," Natasha offered, but Steve shook his head, shuffling off towards the kitchen and getting some water.

 

"No, that'd make me more nervous."

 

"So, Buchanan, your bestie, Steve here is worried about you. What do you want us to tell him to make him feel better? _Probably not anything about the peeping, that'd make him uncomfortable._ " Clint's stage whisper left Steve rolling his eyes at the refrigerator.

 

"Tell him I'm fine. And I'm not peeping. I'm spying right now, which is like peeping but without the perverseness. Usually. Whoa, what're these scientists? Made of gold. The security is ridiculous."

 

"So, what're you gonna do when you find these golden scientists?"

 

"Kill 'em. They did some sick shit back in the day. Hold on." Natasha heard the grunt and thump that told her Bucky was off his perch and on the move. Now they usually maintained radio silence. Clint didn't know that procedure.

 

"Like, what kind of sick shit? The kind of sick shit they did to you, or had you do, or worse?"

 

"Shut up, Barton."

 

"What? I'm just asking--"

 

" _No, shut up. Something's off._ "

 

The room suddenly felt like the air had been electrified. Bucky sounded on edge, which didn't happen in the field, not even when he was taking fire. Natasha was on high alert and Steve seemed to have noticed.

 

"What? What's wrong?"

 

"Bucky said something's off." Natasha shut off the video and pulled up her schematics, police radio, and satellite feed. It looked clear. They could hear Bucky breathing very quietly over the comm, he was running. Then the quiet of stillness, he must have been assessing.

 

Natasha turned her mic off mute and whispered, "what's the situation, Barnes?"

 

" _I'm at the entrance_ ," he just barely breathed. " _Guards're down, two cameras disabled. Key pad wired. Now, I'm monitoring for eyes. Something just feels wrong._ "

 

It was quiet for a long time, what felt like ages. Then, their ears were all nearly blown out by a blast of sound.

 

"Shit! What the hell kind of sensor was that? I didn't detect that. … Oh, fuck me, base, they've got stealth cameras here. Goddamnit, what is this place now--" The feed crackled dead on Bucky, mid-sentence. Last she could tell, he'd been running. Natasha looked over at Clint, what happened?

 

"What? What is it?" Steve asked, seeing their faces. "What happened?"

 

"We lost the link. Something happened on Bucky's end."

 

_"What_ happened _?_ "

 

"There's no way to tell, he's inside the building, I can't see him on satellite. He was talking about stealth cameras when it went dead. There's a possibility he was detected and they jammed his signal."

 

Steve had a kind of wild look in his eye. "We need to go out there. We need to get him."

 

"No. Not yet. We need to give him time to get the situation under control on his own. He may still be able to salvage things without us blowing cover. If he's not back in contact in two hours we'll plan from there."

 

Steve waited, hovering above Natasha for the full two hours. When no communication was re-established between them, he went into Cap-mode. Plans were made, orders were given, Sam was woken up and filled in. This was going to be an all-out rescue mission, all the stops were pulled out. It was another half hour before they were ready, geared up and briefed. Steve was just about to hotwire a car across the street when the headlights of the van appeared.

 

The four of them stalked back across the street and waited, at varying degrees of outrage, for Bucky to pull into the drive. He looked like hell, stepping out of the car, but still managed a sheepish grin. "You all worried?"

 

"You could say that. Get inside."

 

"It's really sweet of you to wait up for me, but I'm fine. I just--"

 

"Get. Inside." Steve was furious, verging on homicidal. His temper hadn't much abated even once they were safe inside. "You were offline for almost three hours, Bucky! We were about to leave to come tear the place down and save you!"

 

A hand went to his hair instantly and started sweeping through it nervously. "Yeah… it wasn't my fault. My comm was busted and I didn't bring my phone. No means of contact. And if I had brought it, it would've been useless anyways."

 

"You think so?"

 

Bucky scoffed. "Yeah. I think so. Stop treating me like a child, Steve, or we're going to have a problem. I _know_ so, because I'm the one who busted the link. Their tech was off the grid and I had three cameras zeroing in on me. I had to deploy an iterating EMP. It took down everything, my arm, the cameras and alarm, obviously my comm. I think they still got a shot of me… but not my whole face. That was before I lost my hat."

 

"Yeah, man…" Sam stepped over and picked up the tatters of Bucky's Winter Soldier jacket that had flopped over and left part of his left side exposed. "What _did_ happen?"

 

Bucky shook his head. "M'not sure really. This place used to be a safe house. I expected a few handlers and some old scientists, all off guard. Well, I was wrong. They've repurposed the place since my last briefing on it. It was a bomb lab, a very well maintained and guarded bomb lab, which I successfully dismantled… just not… uh, yeah." He gestured to his ruined uniform, the soot on his face.

 

"Yeah… did you dismantle it by exploding it?"

 

"No, God no. This is from the grenade."

 

"Great, so you kept it low-key."

 

"Well, we can check and see." Bucky pointed to the television. "We're just in time for the earliest morning news segment. We'll know now if Tasha's plan for media manipulation is going to work."

 

"I'm on it," Sam yawned and switched on the TV to flip through the channels.

 

"And I'm making coffee," Clint muttered. "Don't you guys ever sleep? He's back. He's fine. Go to bed."

 

"And you are fine?" Steve asked, significantly less livid.

 

"Peachy. But you gotta get off my back, Steve. I know what I'm doing."

 

"Doesn't stop me from worrying."

 

"Yeah… I get that."

 

"Found it!" Sam flopped onto the couch and turned up the volume.

 

"… _yet another in a recent string of counter-criminal and now counter-terrorist actions by a single individual, who the government and local authorities continue to assure us is not affiliated with any agency. This time the vigilante succeeded in taking down an entire nuclear development division of the international terrorist organization known as HYDRA singlehandedly._ "

 

"But not very covertly," Steve scolded.

 

"God, I hope 'singlehandedly' is not a preemptive pun." Bucky groaned quietly as he sat down. "I can't take however many years this is going to be of prosthetic related humor."

 

" _…and this time, for the first time, surveillance imagery on site caught our super vigilante on tape. He is seen here…_ "

 

"Oh, Bucky," they all winced as the images flashed onto the screen.

 

"Looks like your EMP wasn't wide enough ranging," Natasha commented coolly. "Good thing you're trained to keep your face down. Ah, the red, white and blue star. That wasn't supposed to happen."

 

"Well, I also wasn't supposed to be blown half to hell by a grenade either. What could I do? Plans changed. I sure as hell didn't expect any of this shit, the cameras, the grenade launcher. Fuck. I guess the heat of the explosion melted the polish off." He turned and investigated the arm as he spoke. "Yep, melted right off."

 

" _…and now, another first with this vigilante, we have a distinguishing feature to add to the effort of identifying our mystery man: a metal arm, the left, with a particular insignia shown here. If you recognize this symbol or know of a man fitting this description, please contact the authorities at the number on your screen. Again, this makes the eighth in a string of raids on domestic terrorist groups, all within a thirty mile radius of one another and seemingly carried out by this same individual, whom authorities are now calling the 'Night Raider'."_  

"Fail," Clint said dully over by the coffee maker.

 

Sam hissed a bit. "Ooh, rough, the 'Night Raider'. That's… that's bad luck, man."

 

"Are they all imbeciles? Can they not use the internet?" Natasha was incensed.

 

Bucky groaned, "I didn't think they'd make up a _new_ name. I thought they'd do their research. This… this kinda defeats half the point of this."

 

"Well…" It was coming, the lecture. Steve was gearing up for it as he peeled an orange. "Then, maybe you should have _not_ gotten caught on camera, like we agreed. When there's nothing to sensationalize on the news, they tend to do their research. Now, they're just going to keep focusing on analyzing these images of you."

 

"Night Raider… that's horrible."

 

"Way to focus, Sam."

 

"We'll make it work, make them work. Don't worry, gentlemen. I have a plan."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part Two will be posted in the next couple of weeks, followed by the final two chapters entitled SELF ACTUALIZATION around the New Year.
> 
> Happy Holidays in the meantime. Your readership is well and truly appreciated. [I could have made a lame joke here about your hit counts, kudos and comments being all the presents I want, but I resisted. For the most part.]


	17. SELF RESPECT pt. 2

Natasha's plan proved to be something along the lines of baiting every private investigator and amateur sleuth in the region. Bucky went into super-stealth mode, no longer aiming to create a story with his acts, but rather leaving breadcrumbs to lead people to research into him. This meant a string of low profile Winter Soldier ghosts, each completed with no immediate attention but clues about what could have happened there, once somebody noticed something had happened. His absence from headline news drove the media into research, finding out what happened to their up until then constant source of ratings-raising stories. And when they researched, they would come in contact with the investigators, and all together they would begin putting the puzzle pieces into place. At least, that was the plan. It still wasn't executing exactly in that manner, however.

 

"Hey, Knitting Raider, get on over here. You're on the news again."

 

Bucky's clack-clack-clack of metal needles paused. He didn't move, though. "No. I wasn't seen. I wasn't caught on camera, or whatever. I hardly even left any evidence I was there. It was just an out of date server, for God's sake. I literally just put the disc Tasha gave me in the slot thing and the whole system crashed."

 

"No, no, I know, man. It's your absence that they're reporting on now."

 

Natasha sighed, across the kitchen table. "These news outlets are moronic."

 

"No, they know how run a business. Bucky's raids make good news, good news means viewers, viewers mean money. It's all capital driven nowadays." Steve mixed a bit more fertilizer into the bottle and began watering their new windowsill garden. It'd started as a joke, that Bucky and him were old and old people liked gardening. But then, it turned out to be accurate.

 

Sam was turning up the volume. "I'm serious, dude. Lookit." Bucky gave up on the knitting and, leaving the amorphous blob scarf, took Wobbles over to the couch.

 

" _…of now, the authorities insist no subject has been apprehended. We suspect he has simply stopped raiding. The question is: why? Is the Night Raider dead? Has he finished his work? Has he been recalled? We all wonder where he is now._

 

_"Well, maybe, Jim, he's taken time off for the holiday season. Speaking of getting into the holiday spirit, this weekend's forecast includes several inches of snow and…_ "

 

"проклятие morons."

 

"I can't believe they haven't connected the metal arm to the Winter Soldier lures Natasha has left across… across everything."

 

"Or picked up the clues at the other ghost-sites."

 

"Nope… instead I've gone MIA, or am on vacation…" Bucky blew the hair off his forehead and sank back into the couch. "I can't find the happy medium."

 

Sam grabbed an armful of beers from the fridge and passed them around. "Speaking of going MIA, have you all noticed the 'Night Raider' isn't the only thing that's quieted down lately? The whole town's hit the snooze button and pulled the covers over their head."

 

"I have noticed that recently. I was wondering what was going on. Something to do with the school?"

 

"Yup, when I volunteered for milk and eggs run day before last, there was a friggin' feeding frenzy in the caffeine and sugar aisles. I thought for a little while I was going to have to break up a few fights. In the check-out line I finally figured it out, overheard some kids talkin'. It's finals this week or so. This is a college town. Things're gonna seem like a wasteland for a while and what life we do see's gonna be pretty night of the living dead. That's zombie-like for you two pre-Romero relics."

 

"So… slow-moving and with impaired mental faculties?" Bucky asked, sounding inappropriately hopeful.

 

"Pretty much."

 

Bucky turned to Steve and punched him, pretty hard, on the shoulder. "D'you know what that means?" He asked over the smack.

 

"I imagine I do," Steve replied, not having moved much, but rubbing his shoulder.

 

"A _real_ runthis evening."

 

"I was right. I did know."

 

"Aces."

 

"Sam and I will join," Natasha said to everyone's surprise. She stopped typing heatedly and explained. "We'll just come as your eyes behind. To prevent anyone seeing anything. The comms'll work for that. Don't worry, we won't intrude on your time. Not that we could ever keep up in order to…"

 

"No, that's great, Natasha. You're both always welcome." Steve was happy to have them along, for one so they felt included and welcome, and for another so that Bucky and he really could open the throttle and not worry.

 

"Oh… oh, alright. Okay." Sam nodded eventually. "Long run in the cold. In the snow. That's _one_ way to get back in gear. And shred your lungs in the process… no, great! Lookin' forward to it. Let's hope I don't bust ass on a patch of ice."

 

By the time the sun was setting, there was really very little left to see in the world beyond their apartment. The snow was coming down pretty hard, and with no wind to blow it aside, it acted a bit like a shimmering, white curtain. Steve seriously doubted that even non-zombie-like residents of the town would have been able to make very much out of seeing them running. Everything was a blur. The light was low and weak and the street was quiet, like someone had pulled a pillow over it and muffled everything. It was desolate, just like Sam had predicted.

 

Steve and Bucky took off west, with a wave back to Natasha and Sam, running in the deeper snow for extra resistance. After a few strides, their friends were basically invisible, erased by the whiteout. Bucky kept in step beside Steve, little clouds of steam accompanying the only sound they heard besides the scrunch of snow underfoot. Puff, puff, puff, crack, slosh, crunch. It was all very muted except for them.

 

"We're blind back here, Steve, but there may be a car at your six in two minutes or so."

 

"Thanks, Nat." Steve shrugged at Bucky, pulling his cap lower onto his face and slowing down. They milled at half-time for a few minutes, more trudging than running through the snow, before finally giving up and returning to a full sprint. It was a good ten minutes and many miles around their long path through the town later that Steve heard another sound. By then it was fully dark and Bucky and he were just guessing as to where they were on their route, if they were even still on it. And what they heard made them both skid to a stop and wonder where they'd wandered off to.

 

"What was that? Did you hear that?"

 

"Sounded like shouting. Four o'clock." Buck's four o'clock was through a snow wall and into a darker-than-the-rest-of-the-dark pathway.

 

"Two types of shouting."

 

"Pleading and demanding."

 

"Someone's being attacked," Steve concluded and darted towards the sounds without even a check behind to see if Bucky was following. The metallic whir and the crunch of his footfalls pursuing provided that answer.  
 

The shouting grew louder quickly, both as Steve and Bucky plowed towards it and as the confrontation grew more heated. Soon, and before they could actually see the source, Steve could understand what was being said.

 

"…just get on the ground and stay still and we won't shoot." An armed attack, robbery most likely. Steve could feel his ears burning.

 

"Get off of me! Help! Help! Hel--ah!" There was a crack of metal on bone and a few muffled stumblings. "You broke my wrist!"

 

"Well, you wouldn't shut up! Now keep quiet, get down and hold still!"

 

"Uh, dude, I hear something." Great, there was more than one assailant.

 

"Yeah, me too. Someone's comin'." Three at least. "Hey, whoever you are! Come out here nice and slow and nobody gets hurt." And more than one of them was armed.

 

Steve by this point had slowed to a jog, hoping to assess the situation from a short distance and then act. They had heard him, however, before a real plan could be made. So, the tried and true talk it out tactic would have to suffice. Behind him, Buck slowed too, but he sounded antsy. That arm was wheezing its exertion at being held still. Slowly, as directed, they turned what they could now see was the corner of a courtyard into its semi-sheltered center. There were four of them there, three hooded and holding guns, around the fourth, who looked to be a student and a scared one at that. And yet, he still defiantly remained on his feet, broken wrist cradled to his chest, along with a book bag. Bucky stepped shoulder to shoulder with Steve, almost audibly growling at the sight.

 

"Dude, there's two of them."

 

"And they're huge."

 

"We've got the guns, idiots. Hey, you! Yeah, we've got guns and we're not fucking around. So turn back the way you came and forget you ever saw us."

 

"I don't think so, son."

 

The one in the middle, with his gun held to the student's head and clearly in charge, quickly turned to aim at Steve as he stepped forward.

 

"Don't! Don't fuckin' move! Seriously."

 

"Oh, I can see that you're _deadly_ serious. But, it's not worth it. Release the young man and be on your way. You don't need this sorta trouble."

 

He scoffed. "Trouble? Seriously? We're the ones with the guns."

 

"Uh, Bobby. I think he might be right.  I mean--"

 

"SHUT UP! And no names, idiot! We're the trouble, we're in charge here. Now, fuck off, man, or you'll regret it." He waved his gun to make his point. His pals didn't share his fervor, shifting a bit and in general looking scared out of their minds.

 

"No, son, I think you'll be the one who'll regret it. This is your life you're messing with, and this young man's. Is it worth it?"

 

"IS YOURS? 'CAUSE YOU'RE SURE NOT ACTIN LIKE IT IS! Get outta here! And you two, guns up! Idiots!"

 

"Well," Bucky said in a raised mutter, "he's right about one thing. They're all idiots."

 

"You want trouble too, man?" The gun shifted from Steve to Bucky. "I can oblige."

 

"Oh, this one knows big words."

 

"Now, don't incite them, Bucky. They're in a charged situation, anything could set them off."

 

"That's right _, Bucky_ , anything could set us off. On you! Psshh, Bucky, what kinda name is that? Amiright? Right guys?" The other two attackers laughed nervously along with their big-mouthed leader. It soon died off when Bucky started laughing as well.

 

"What--what is he laughing about?"

 

"Is he fucked up, or…?"

 

"Forget the nutjob and get your guns up, idiots! Hey, dude, shut the fuck up!"

 

Bucky chuckled a few more times and wiped at his eyes."You three are a gas. Having a stick up in the middle of a snowstorm and robbing a college student. You do realize students are usually not well off? I mean, I'm not even from around these parts and I know that. And look, Steve, look. They don't even know how to handle those guns. First class dumbasses."

 

It was true. They were holding them with flimsy grips and shaking wrists. They one and all looked terrified. "Okay, kids," because by this point it had become clear that they were kids, "one more chance: put the guns on the ground and run out of here. You can still make something of your lives. That, or it's gonna be prison time."

 

"Ha! Ha! Who does this guy think he is, huh? Either of these tools?" It sounded loud, but the confidence was just not there. All bark, no bite. Just fear. Problem was, fear makes a person do stupid things.

 

"Bobby--"

 

"No NAMES! God, are you deaf? Moron. And guns to the kid. Up. Up!" The ring leader made his mistake then. Went stupid. He turned to yell at his accomplice, taking his eye off of the two of them for just a second. It only took that second for Bucky to be on top of them.

 

He went for the big-mouth first, stalking towards him in a way that made the boy go wide-eyed and trigger-happy. He was too fast for him, even once the shots started firing off, dodging three and blocking two with his arm. The kid didn't even have time to unload the whole clip before Bucky wrenched the gun from his hand and then kicked him thirty feet backwards. The other two, hesitant criminals that they seemed, neglected to react, only to stare in terror at Bucky. He disarmed the first, crushing the barrel of the gun now pointed towards him and snatching the other's as the two of them withered, one to his knees, the other stumbling backwards. Steve took the opportunity to jog up and check on the hostage/victim.

 

"You alright, son?" He asked, helping him away from the two who were now the ones being held at gunpoint. One of them smelled like he'd pissed himself. And who could blame him? Having Bucky go Winter Soldier on you was not a pleasant experience. It felt downright deadly.

 

"I'm--I'm… I'm…" The student was in shock, shaking and staring.

 

"You're gonna be fine. Sit tight here." Steve needed to check on the ringleader. "Oh, and don't shoot 'em while I'm gone, Buck," he called back as he jogged away.

 

"I'm not gonna shoot 'em, though the fuckwits should be shot. I'm just makin' sure they don't fuck up shit worse by running. Think things're gonna be bad now, fellas? Well, try serving for armed assault _and_ fleeing the scene of a crime. All with gunshot wounds. And trust me, asshats, you don't wanna serve time in the hospital the way I'd put you there. You wanna keep your kneecaps, and I'm sure you like your ribs where they're at, all whole and not jammed into your lungs."

 

"Enough, Buck."

 

"What? I'm just inspiring them with my words, like you do."

 

Steve smiled. "Enough all the same." He laid the unconscious head of their failed robbery at the other two's feet and stepped back. "Just watch them. I'm going to call the cops."

 

"Yeah I'll _watch_ 'em."  
 

When he stepped back into earshot from calling the police, Steve heard the boy and Bucky talking.

 

"…you manage to kick him that far?"

 

"Adrenalin. I meant are _you_ alright?"

 

"Me? Whaddabout you?" The student looked to Bucky's left and then pointed at the bullet holes in his sleeve. "He shot you!"

 

Bucky shrugged. "Just a prosthetic, kid. I'm perfectly fine. Don't you worry 'bout me." He reached over then, and gave the student's shoulder a squeeze. "Are _you_ okay?" Steve felt like he was looking back in time from the outside in for a second. Little, scrawny guy, found himself in a fight too big for himself, but wouldn't back down. Of course, Buck had put himself out there to save him. It was what he'd always done. Steve couldn't help but melt into a grin.

 

"Well, alright. Police are on their way. They'll want to talk to us about what happened and then you can go home. Well, not you." Steve pointed to the three, now all sat or splayed out on the ground. "No, you three'll be heading to your new home with the cops."

 

"Uh, thanks, sir," the student said, clearly trying his best to calm down. "Uh, sirs. You guys saved my… life, I think."

 

Steve nodded and set his hands on his hips. "You're more than welcome, son. But next time, if God forbid there is a next time, you should really just do what they tell you to--" Steve paused and glared back at Bucky who was snorting, rather rudely, his amusement at Steve's admittedly hypocritical advice.

 

"Practice what you preach sometime, pal."

 

"Shut up, Buck, I'm trying to help here."

 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. What's new?"

 

"Like I was saying: you should do what they demand, because your life is worth so much more than your things. I know it's hard, backing down, and I don't like being pushed around anymore than you do. But, bully or no, they're not worth your life. Okay? Take it from someone who knows from experience."

 

"Someone pushed _you_ around? You're joking."

 

"Yeah, not so much. And he didn't ever back down and he got the shit kicked outta him more times than I can count. Just do what he says, kiddo. Please. Guys like us aren't always around to have your back. _Right_ , _Steve_?"

 

"Right."

 

"Al--alright."

 

"Good. Now, Steve, since you're a moral person and all that shit, you should come check on dipshit number one over here. His pals keep whimpering about… what is it? Speak up."

 

"His--his--his left side's sunk in."

 

"Yeah, his lung's probably collapsed."

 

Steve sighed and trudged over. "You kicked the guy's chest in." Bucky shrugged when he received the cold end of his glare.

 

"Well, the cockhead shot at me, and you, and the kid. I was upset."

 

Just as Steve was checking for breath sounds the scattered blue and red flash of the police cars crept into view. And with it the sirens. One ambulance, two rounds of questioning and three pairs of handcuffs later, the would-be robbers were toted and gurneyed off, and Steve and Buck were left with the kid, who insisted he didn't need a ride back in the police cruiser.

 

"No, no, thank you. I'm still a little shaken. Just wanna walk it out, let the cold clear my head," he'd explained. Since he'd refrained from outing Bucky's superheroic strength, speed, and prosthetics and hadn't flinched when they'd both offered different names for the incident report, they didn't mind convincing the cops to let him be. In fact, Bucky seemed adamant upon escorting the kid home himself.

 

It wasn't a far walk, nor did it take them out of their way. In fact, it put Steve and Bucky back on their jogging path, after a few more gushing thanks from the student. As they were getting back into stride, Steve took the opportunity to gently rebuke Bucky for his rashness.

 

"That wasn't your best work out there, Buck. You could've gotten Omar hurt. And killed the dimwitted gunmen."

 

Bucky shook his head. "Nah, I knew what was going to happen before I moved a muscle. I could see the fear in those guys, all three of 'em. They weren't ballsy enough to actually shoot the kid. Now, shoot in self-defense, yes, but I'm built for that now. No skin off my back and everybody's fine. I mean, I'll admit I didn't mean to kick that first guy so hard, but his pissed me the fuck off, shooting at you too."

 

"So, you didn't actually know."

 

"No. I knew. Still made me mad. Heya, Tasha, Sam. On your right." Bucky grinned hugely as they jogged on either side of their two friends, both of whom looked completely confused.

 

"On your left," Steve added in, also smiling at their faces. He'd explain later. For now, he was just going to enjoy the rest of this run and the excellent mood he and Bucky had found themselves in.

 

* * *

"You two just couldn't keep your heads down, could you?" The door Natasha had just kicked open, flew back on its hinges, rebounded off Bucky's head, and nearly swung shut again.

 

"Ow."

 

"What are you talking about?" Steve finished his push up and dog-eared the page he was on. "And since when do you kick doors in here?"

 

"Oh, did the _kicking_ bother you?"

 

"Yeah. I thought knocking was still standard practice." Bucky, having given up his inverted sit-ups and dropped to the ground, was now standing in the bathroom doorway and trying to dislodge the frame-bar. "I think you may have cracked our door."

 

"On your thick skull. Your thick, doltish skull. You _kicked_ a guy thirty feet across an apartment courtyard?" Natasha held out that morning's news story on the event, now displaying on her phone. "You said that you two apprehended them and helped the student home. Nothing was said about bullet-dodging, crushing handguns, or super soldier, chest-crushing heel kicks."

 

"I've never been a man of many words."

 

Natasha glowered at Bucky briefly but turned her true umbrage on Steve. "No, but this one's known for his integrity and also he knows, and has given me grief about this very thing, that not telling the whole truth is still lying. So, spill, Rogers."

 

"I didn't want you to worry?"

 

"You mean, you didn't want to hear this tirade. I wouldn't have worried. I would have been proactive and covered your sorry, impulsive asses and maybe have retained our cover here. There're going to be media sleezebags crawling all over this place now. And added attention only heightens the chance that someone will become curious, someone who isn't just looking to make a buck on sensationalist news-mongering. Someone like a HYDRA cell, red-assed and raring for their missing operative and a taste of revenge." Natasha spun on her heel and marched out. "ой боже мой! мнепо́хую уже не, гады! мудаки!"

 

"Oh, man, she's miffed. There were words in there I didn't know."

 

"Yeah, Buck. I got that."

 

"Hey, so…" Sam threw open the door Natasha had just slammed shut. This time, Bucky caught it. "I heard you two are going to be on the news tonight. Yay, fifteen minutes of fame! Oh, and when she kills you, I'm taking your stuff." He grinned darkly and then strolled on.

 

"I've had about enough of the peanut gallery's smart mouth."

 

"Like yours is any better," Steve sighed, dropping back onto the floor and opening his book. "You could have not provoked her, by the way."

 

"And miss out on that tendon in her neck bulging out like it did? No way." Bucky tossed a smirk Steve's way and then hopped back onto the doorframe bar he'd just remounted in their bedroom doorway. "She'll calm down when the story airs tonight. There's no way we're actually compromised. The cops agreed to confidentiality."

 

* * *

"Well, slap my ass and call me Janet." Buck stood in front of the television set, one hand buried in his hair, the other trying to remove his chin from the rest of his face. "I stand corrected."

 

More specifically, he stood in front of the headline 'college-town good Samaritans or undercover superheroes?' flashing on the screen as the studio prefaced the spotlight piece. But, in a way, that left him corrected. He had claimed throughout the day that they had nothing on him, that the report was going to be about the criminal activity, not its resolution. He'd been wrong. He'd been super-duper absolutely ass-backwards wrong. And Nat, despite being proven right, was fuming about it in her own special, silent, blank-face-of-doom sort of way.

 

_"And our special report tonight takes us home, to local news: the string of student-targeted armed robberies plaguing the University's campus for the last week has come to a thrilling end with a citizens' arrest yesterday evening. As initial reports from our campus representatives and contacts with the university police state, three assailants were detained, all three confirmed suspects in the other robberies, after being caught in the middle of a fourth armed robbery by two locals, both of whom have requested to remain anonymous. Our field correspondent for the campus area, Ronnie Banks, interviewed the last would-be victim, Omar Yetz, this morning. He had this to say:"_

 

"Damn, that's a college kid? He is tiny."

 

"Shaddup, Sam. Not his fault."

 

"I know. And he wasn't giving up? They'd'a killed him."

 

"We know."

 

"I know you know, that's why you did it. You identified with his situation and--"

 

"Enough shrink talk. Let's hear what he's gonna say. And hope it's not much," Buck added as an afterthought.

 

_"…complete accident, I think they were just passing by, but thank goodness they were. So, no, I didn't know them. I didn't ask their names, or anything, and I still don't know who they are. To be honest, I probably wouldn't recognize them in a crowd, but I owe them everything. I'm so, so grateful."_

 

_"Omar, in shock and exhausted from his ordeal, couldn't provide us with any information to aid us in the identification of our gallant mystery men. But Omar was not alone in witnessing this incredible event--"_

 

"Damn," Steve muttered, slinging the dishtowel over his shoulder and joining the rest of them in front of the television set.

 

Buck remained standing. "Fuck me raw…"

 

"Fewer creative profanities, more silence." Nat turned the volume up.

 

_"…Tidwell, resident of the apartments whose courtyard played host to this encounter also described the scene._

 

_"'I was reading, doing homework, when I heard these gunshots. And they were so close. Like an idiot, I ran towards them to see what was going on. By the time I got to my window, the firing had stopped and the guy with the gun suddenly didn't have the gun anymore. This other guy just ripped it outta his hand and then_ kicked _him, like, across the courtyard. I'm talking literally across the courtyard. The guy flew. It was insane. The other crazy part was, the kicking guy, he wasn't shot. He had practically bull rushed the first guy with the gun and didn't get hit. I heard, like, five shots fired and this was at mega close range, like, kicking the guy in the chest six seconds later close. It was all kinds of crazy.'_

 

_"As provoking as his account is, Riley could provide no further information about these two men, primarily due to the distance and the snow fall. So the question still remains: who were our valiant good Samaritans, and why have they chosen to remain anonymous? Criminal investigator J. Jones has one theory: they weren't just normal citizens. Jones is known for her work on vigilante-resolved crime and has recently been the lead civilian investigator on the series of Night Raider incidents. She believes the intervention is just one of the same nature, except not pre-meditated._

 

_"'Most likely this is one of our masked vigilantes, ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. agents-turned-superhero, or even the operative you've so insipidly named the Night Raider, a.k.a. the Winter Soldier. This is exactly their M.O.: take care of what the normal authorities can't and then disappear into the night. And honestly, you shouldn't be surprised that this happens. They're trained to do things a certain way, to protect people. You can't expect them to suddenly stop doing that even when they find themselves in a situation that would compromise their cover identities.'_

 

_"When asked if she could speculate on their identities and location, Jones responded ambiguously: 'I'll tell you what I told you when you asked about the Winter Soldier incidents: you should leave them alone. Sure, do your research, be informed, but don't meddle. By digging into their personal lives you might just get in the way of them saving yours.'_

 

_"And that's one opinion. Frankly, here at Channel Six, we were too curious to let it lie, especially if, as Ms. Jones speculated, this could be our MIA Night Raider's base of operations. So, we paid a visit to some other inhabitants of this small college townlet, located conveniently at the epicenter of Night Raider activity, and we asked a few folks who live around the scene if they had any information about our mystery men. Many people were just as curious as we were, but not any more clued in. Finally, however, we happened upon one resident who mentioned that there are two men, fitting the descriptions of our Samaritans, who jog through the area pretty regularly and normally around the time of the attack. While we still do not know who these individuals are, this is a promising lead and could help us locate them. So there it is, folks. Two locals in this town may very well be undercover superheroes. We'll keep you updated as this ongoing investigation unfolds…"_

 

"Well," Bucky turned around, looking straight up sheepish, "at least they didn't actually compromise us. They don't know who we are. The cops kept up their end of the deal and kept our information confidential. They're just speculating that there are _talented_ individuals in this area."

 

"Barnes, they might as well have--"

 

"Have painted a target on the back of all our heads because I outed us to HYDRA on national television! I fucking know! I fucked up. I fucked up real bad. And, goddamnit, I'm sorry!" He sank onto the couch with his head hung, rubbing at his left shoulder like he'd started doing when he was upset. "And I ruined our evening jogs on top of that!"

 

"Actually, Bucky, what I was going to say was that they might as well have titled the piece 'Channel Six: reporting on facts or dispersing fictions.' Half the stuff they presented was spun out conjecture, and they blatantly perverted Ms. Jones' interview to their angle. Half the nation is going to see through this as garbage and the other half… well, they're not the ones we have to worry about. We just need to keep our heads down in case HYDRA does decide to scout in response. They don't know who we are or where we're staying, and I'm going to hack the police database tonight and erase your names from the report, just in case. We'll be fine. Besides, at least that interview with Jones connected the Night Raider to the Winter Soldier on the air. That's progress on our front."  
 

But Natasha seemed to have underestimated the investigatory moxie of Channel Six. They apparently were not going to just give up a lead that could pay off in a big way. They stuck around for days and continued interviewing anyone they could about the residents of the small town, searching for their mystery men. It took them several days, but eventually the news crew happened upon someone who could tie the nighttime joggers to a particular set of identities: one of the students from the CO dorm.

 

Sam recognized him immediately when the interview aired. It was a midday special report, so the television, now a permanent fixture of their days during news-airing hours, wasn't on to begin with and they missed the first few minutes or so. In fact, they were completely blindsided by the whole thing, down to the vehicle of their hearing about the report.   
 

There had been a knock at the door a few minutes before lunch, revealing Clint. That was highly unusual, as Clint never asked to come inside and never used the front door. Needless to say they were all surprised.

 

"You know you guys have eyes on your place? It was a pain in my ass to get in here," he'd said as he'd begun stripping off clothes, which in itself was sadly not as surprising as him using the front door. "Funny thing is, it's not baddies. It's some loony news guys. In a stake out van, for god's sake!"

 

"Uh… Clint? Why are you here? Aren't you supposed to be out on assign--"

 

"Oh, yeah. I had to take a timeout on that. You see, seeing this apartment building on the news changed my priorities. Apparently, some kids connected the dots between 'civic' heroes and 'super' heroes and pointed the news guys to the firehouse. Turn it on, you'll see. It's airing right over my soap operas."

 

Steve exchanged a look with Buck, shot a similar one at Sam, and then stopped snapping green beans to turn on the tv. Nat too stopped what she was doing, whatever it was on her computer, and perched on the back of the couch to watch.   
 

"You watch soap operas?" Buck asked, edging up beside Clint, still peeling blanched almonds, as Steve flipped through the channels. "Really? Soap operas?"

 

Clint shrugged. "I'm a bum. I'm home in the middle of the day. There's nothing else on the tube. I get sucked in, then invested in the characters. So, yeah. I watch soaps. How's that blob of a scarf coming, Buchanan?"

 

"Fantastically, thanks for asking. It's moonlighting as an potholder for now. I'd say that's a bonus. Turns out I'm more than just a pretty weapon--"

 

"Shush, you two, I found it." Steve stepped back and turned up the volume.

 

"Damn, I know that kid."

 

"We all do. He's from the--"

 

"Dorm with the CO issue."

 

_Everybody_ recognized him as soon as the interview popped up on screen. He'd been so damn memorable. That yacky student standing out in front of the dorm naked as the day he was born. He'd been difficult _not_ to notice. He hadn't even been covering his junk or anything. Thankfully, on the television, though still yacking, the kid had clothing on.

 

_"…who you guys are asking about. Two, big dudes, right? Kinda look like they belong to Uncle Sam's fan club? Yeah, I've seen them running, and I know them. Well, I met them."_

 

"I know this is the first confirmation of your identities that Channel Six has gotten, but they could have at least edited the interview. This dude-bro is a moron. And this is about the fourth time they've aired this." Clint sat down next to Nat, eating mashed potatoes straight out of the mixing bowl. "It gets worse each time."

 

"Shh. First time we're seeing it." Sam took the bowl away and turned the volume up even more.

 

_"Yeah, I mean, I don't know their names but I do know who they are. They're firefighters. Came to the dorm a few months back to clear the building when the CO alarm went off. I bet they're down at the fire station, if ya wanna talk to them yourself. I mean, dude, the house has a live-in apartment if they're not on duty, could get an interview."_

 

"And presto: news vans parked out on the street."

 

"What a pain in the ass," Buck groaned. He glared at the numbskull on the screen and then leaned back to peer out the front window. "There's friggin half a'dozen conspicuously inconspicuous vans out front."

 

"That's what I was saying. Swarm of locusts descendin' on you, which is why I'm here. Now, you have any coffee? I'm withering over here." 

 

"In the pot. Prob'ly gone cold but--"

 

"No prob," Clint said, grabbing the coffee pot and taking a chug straight from it. "But I'm guessing from the fresh upset and shock on your faces that they haven't rung up to chitty chat with you guys. Wonder why that is…"

 

"Yeah, me too, Barton." Nat was back on her computer, typing away.

 

The volume on the tv upped again. "I think this is why," Steve said, waving to the screen where the Chief was now booming, all boisterous and ruddy in his own interview.

 

_"…now, I don't know who's who and what's what. And I don't know who you all think did what, but that's none o' my concern. All's I know is that my firefighters are great. I wouldn'a been surprised if it were one o' them who did whatever you're investigating. But, all the same, they're not coming out and taking credit for it, so maybe you should leave these guys, whoever they are, to their anonymity. Seems to me, no matter your curiosity, it's not a safety issue and their privacy should be respected. Everyone's privacy, so off you go! Have a good one!"_

 

_"We were then excused from the premises. One of our camera techs was actually injured in the process--"_

 

"What _the_ _fuck_ ever. Chief probably just gave them a headache with that loud ass voice of his. Bull. Shit." Sam basted his roast rather angrily. This was getting ridiculous.

 

And a few days later, it officially was ridiculous. Registered, laminated card kind of ridiculous. It didn't stop with the news piranhas either. The insanity was contagious. They couldn't even go out their front door anymore, in case some locals in need of a few bucks snapped a picture to sell to the news outlets. Some of them even rang their doorbell. Repeatedly. Without lifting their finger for minutes on end. Buck eventually punched the intercom through the wall because Wobbles was having a near-heart attack from the noise. At least then they had some quiet.

 

"I feel like a zoo animal," he said at one point, pacing around the room as Wobbles hyperventilated in her papoose.

 

"And now we've come full circle."

 

"What?"

 

"Don't worry about it," Nat replied, flipping through the channels and browsing news sites simultaneously to find out what lengths the stations had gone to that day to make them a story. "We can't judge for sure now, due to lack of a doorbell system, but I think the local scene has calmed down."

 

"Yeah, there's only two or three people milling out front now. Though, one has a pair of binoculars and is looking right into our window." Steve pulled reflexively at his holomask as he stepped back from the window. "That's uncivilized."

 

"You could say that. But then again, once we became sensationalized we sort of lost our humanity, so…"

 

"Zoo animals, like I said."

 

"Yes, like Bucky said. Oi. Lovely." Nat stopped on one station, her face dropping.

 

Sam sat down beside her, confused. "What is this we're looking at? This isn't Channel Six. I thought it was the only syndicate covering this."

 

"It still is. This is a purely local channel, run by the university."

 

"Son of a bitch."

 

"You're kidding."

 

"Disappointing."

 

"Yes. No. And I agree, Steve. Still the truth."

 

"And somehow it's outdone Channel Six. What is this? Conspiracy-theory speculation hour?"

 

Nat shook her head, unmuting the television. "Not unless you define that as the discussion of the most accurate research completed by an information distributer to date. What bothers me is how they managed to secure _this_ information."

 

Buck and Steve joined them, standing behind the couch. "Those aren't recent."

 

"Yeah, we haven't left the apartment in daylight for almost a week."

 

"Precisely the basis for my being disturbed. These must be from satellite imagery databases. What used to be S.H.I.E.L.D. satellite databanks." She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. "Freedom of information comes at a price. This is my--"

 

"Don't even say it, Natasha. This is the result of a whole ton of other people's mistakes. You were just the person cleaning those up. Now, how much do they know?"

 

"Let's listen and find out." The volume bars crept up to fifty, temporarily covering their faces, candid shots of their group out by the van, in the park, coming out of the grocery store. Below them read 'Even the Heroes of New York (and D.C.) Take Vacations.'

 

_"…what you're thinking: gee, do these four look familiar. It's because they are. Two of them are the college-town heroes, saving freshmen from robbers. You've probably seen them yourself, jogging around, pulling kids and cats from burning buildings, giving college students wet dreams. But there's more. They're not just friendly, Greek-godlike neighbors in the right place at the right time. Look at these guys. Do these two look like just your average civilians to you? One of these_ kicked _a full grown man thirty feet across a courtyard. That smells like hero soup to me.  Again, look at them: over six foot, muscular, dark hair, light eyes, not bad looking. Sound a lot like our sole witness's account of the Night Raider, does it not? What's more, this little town of ours is dead in the center of all the Night Raider raids. Coincidence is god just laughing at our small-mindedness. This is our theory. One of these guys is the Night  Raider. Period._

 

_"And this is backed up by the rest of their little group. Now, these two literally_ look _familiar. And that's because you've seen them on the six o'clock news with a pair of wings and a leather catsuit. I'd bet my left hand that this is the guy in the jetpack from D.C.. There I've even drawn on the goggles for you, a perfect match. And that's Natasha Romanoff, a.k.a. Black Widow, member of the Avengers. I mean, look at that face, those piercing eyes. Just imagine some red hair instead of the black and a pair of semiautomatic handguns and you've got the baddest heroine New York's ever fantasized about. And who's this, the extra special bonus surprise? That black and blue mug carrying, you betcha, a friggin' bow is none other than Clint Barton, a.k.a Hawkeye, sneaking into this place. Now whaddya think he's in there doing? Not firefighting, I can guarantee you that. But that's a digression back to our BlackHawk theories that we can return to at a later date._

 

_"Two Heroes of New York, one brand new Falcon, and one Night Raider. That just leaves a super I.D. for the other of our two buff-monkeys--'cause you know they both are powered up by just looking at them--and we've got a complete superhero set vacationing in our sleepy town. Even heroes need R and R and University Village looks like it's the number one, most popular destination spot for these guys. A little civic heroism, some low key crime fighting, and a rest from the public eye. Makes sense to me--"_

 

"This is the worst kind of sensationalist reporting. This is fanaticism and obsession given an outlet. This is a magnet for extremists and insane people." Steve finally yanked off his holomask, throwing it onto the table and setting his hands on his hips. It was closest he'd come to a tantrum. Buck retrieved the mask and set it back in Steve's hand.

 

"Probably. What we should be worrying about though is if we think those extremists and insane people include actual dangerous types."

 

"You mean HYDRA?" Nat asked, turning down the now legitimately crazy drivel.

 

"Among others, yes."

 

She shrugged. "You know as much as I do. But, if I had to guess, probably. They're exactly the kind of audience that would take this inflammatory speculation seriously."

 

"Completely accurate inflammatory speculation, as you pointed out earlier, Natasha. This could be a problem." Steve waved back to the screen, now alight with photos of them with grocery carts, the commentary detailing their contents and speculating on diet and food preference and the ramifications of that. "If they ever return to reporting on serious theories."

 

"It could be. You're right. So we hole up here, we have the stores and the ammo, we can respond to an attack." Phone out, Nat sent a text and then looked at each of them. "If we need it, we can call in backup and more supplies. What we can't do is run, not in good conscious. We've put this town on the map, the supervillain organization map, as a big red x. We can't just leave it here undefended. If we draw them in, we at least have to be here to neutralize them."

 

"Like a bug lamp."

 

"Precisely."

 

"Okay."

 

"Okay."

 

Steve and Buck both nodded, looking considerably calmer. Sam was on the bandwagon as well. He even joined in on the hands-on-hips pose.

 

"So, we stay here. Get ready."

 

"Train and prep. And decorate for Christmas."

 

"Yes, we have sound-proofed the basement so, we-- wait. What?" Nat wrenched herself all the way around to look over at Buck. "What?"

 

"I said we train and prep and decorate for Christmas."

 

"Yeah, I heard that, hence my reaction: what?"

 

Buck shrugged. "If I can't do anything else locked down in this shit hole, I'm sure as hell going to have a nice Christmas. That means decorations. I bet the firehouse has some. I'll go ask the Chief."

 

"Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa. Christmas decorations, volunteering to interact with the Chief..." Nat held her hand up to Buck's forehead. "Are you feeling alright?"

 

"Nah, he's fine." Steve chuckled and pulled Natasha away and out of the way of Buck's most sardonic sneer. "Bucky's just always really loved Christmas. It cancels out all his other… less mirthful qualities."

 

"I'm damn near merry 'round Christmas. I hope you can handle all the cheer," Buck deadpanned and marched from the apartment.

 

"Well… that was… unexpected."

 

"Yeah, I suppose I coulda warned you guys, but I couldn't be sure that part of him would still be around. " The mood of the room darkened to that of a few months before. "Those things are still up in the air sometimes, but… for the most part they're falling on our side of the line. So… uh… back to Christmas, back to jolliness and cheer, and definitely nothing about the reporters outside."

 

"We'll wait them out, Steve. Chin up. Oh, and I just heard from Clint. He'll be swinging back into town in a few days, says he's got surprises again."

 

Sam sat back down on the couch with a smile. "Ah, Christmas. Who doesn't love Christmas? --Or the holidays, whatever you celebrate. It's so nice. It smells good, all the lights look bitchin', the food is _extra_ awesome. Warm fires, hot cocoa, and carols, I love it."

 

"So… uh… it's pretty soon," Steve said, squinting at the calendar (the one he insisted upon them having because 'we're civilized people, it's good to be able to see the month ahead, and _not_ only on our phones').

 

"Yup, a few weeks."

 

"Are we… having presents exchanged or…"

 

"Well, it would be pretty difficult, seeing as we're blockaded in here." Natasha folded her hands and looked between them. "But what do you think? We'll also have to ask Bucky, of course."

 

"What kind of grinch monsters are you two? Of course we'll have presents! That's the beauty of the internet. They'll deliver it right to your front door and everything. You can even have them gift wrap it for you. No excuse is a good excuse not to have presents--well, except not having money for it. But we're good on funds, aren't we, Nat?"

 

"Oh, we're fine, it's just that--"

 

"Then, it's settled. There shall be presents! Oh, man, I know exactly what I'm getting each of y'all. Ooo. That's perfect." Sam began composing his list internally: that pair of ballet shoes Nat had been mooning at one her computer when she thought no one could see her, Stark tech bio-environment socks for Steve and some Ray Bans for Buck cause he needed some new shades. It was gonna be great.

 

"Okay…" Nat said somewhere outside of Sam's Santa-brainstorm. "I guess we're doing presents."

 

"There it is. So…"

 

"What do you want?"

 

"Have anything in mind?"

 

The two of them asked essentially the same question simultaneously. List finished, Sam returned to the real world to smirk at them. "Y'all aren't good at this, are you? Gift-giving."

 

"I love giving. Giving isn't the problem," Steve responded immediately. His hand reached up and rubbed at the back of his head. "It's the 'what' I'm giving that I don't have much experience in."

 

Nat considered the two of them for a second before announcing, "you're both getting tactical gear from me. I'm horrible at buying for what people want. It's a character flaw," she shrugged and walked away.

 

"I, uh, I guess that's that," Steve said, still rubbing at the back of his head like an idea might pop out if he kept at it long enough. "You like handmade gifts, Sam?"

 

"Sure," he chuckled. "You can draw me somethin', Steve. But it better be a rendition of me as Captain America. And don't skimp on the full body detail, you know I'm ripped enough for the spandex."

 

"You… got it, Sam," Steve said glumly as Sam retreated to the kitchen.

 

"He's got what? And you better stop rubbing that spot Steve or you'll go bald there." The front door closed behind Buck, key ring jangling as he spun it 'round his finger. Steve dropped his hand.

 

"Oh, portrait request. What's that?"

 

"Portrait… o-o-okay, whatever. This?" Buck grabbed the keys and grinned. "These are the keys to the cellar storage, that door underneath the south stairs. Apparently it's full of old shit, some of which the Chief claims is Christmas decorations. He said we're free to use whatever we want. The firehouse doesn't decorate or do presents anymore since the Chief's wife _was_ Jewish. I dunno what the 'was' means… kinda ominous… but yeah, oh, and he says they exchange desserts around the holidays instead of presents, but I have a feeling that just means he expects a crapload of sweets from us. Oh well."

 

"As if Sam needed an excuse to bake," Nat scoffed, coming back out of her room. "Did I hear mention of a cellar storage room?"

 

"You did. Keys." Buck held them up. "Who's helping me bring the decorations up?"

 

"Me!" Sam shoved the quick sandwich he'd been making into his mouth and scurried over.

 

"I'll come, to scope out what else is in there. Steve?"

 

He had taken up rubbing the back of his head again. He dropped his hand and shrugged. "Oh sure. Why not?"

 

* * *

Steve was in a bad way. He'd been torn, asking about Christmas presents, partly hoping they would want to exchange them, partly fearing they would. He loved gifts and the holiday, or he had used to. Since coming out of the ice there hadn't been many people to celebrate with or practice modern gift-giving on. It was all about buying things nowadays, less about finding something with personal significance. That is, handmade gifts weren't the style anymore and Steve wasn't a master of the modern economy yet, or all that enthused about it, especially not the commercialization of Christmas that had intensified so significantly.

 

So, needless to say, he was fretting over what he'd get them. He kept fretting over it as Bucky tore through the storage room, through the dust explosions, sneezing fits and jokes about the stuff unearthed down there. He missed most of that, including whenever Natasha left. By the time he was hauling an incredibly dust-laden box back up the stairs she'd been gone for a while apparently.

 

"Is that a menorah?" She asked, looking up from her computer as they came back into the apartment.

 

"Yep!" Sam answered, hefting the decoration in question. "In case the Chief's wife reappears and comes for a visit. Or anyone else we know happens to be Jewish."

 

"Sound enough reasoning," Natasha decided and returned to her work.

 

Sam left the menorah on the table and set his box down with Steve's and Bucky's. "Okay, let's find out just what is in here."

 

What was in there was a metric ton of dust with a few Christmas decorations that looked like they hadn't been used since before Steve went into the ice.

 

"Whoa. Care--careful. Geez."

 

"Did that garland just _melt_ in your fingers?"

 

"I barely touched it."

 

"Lord. How old is this crap? And what… what are these?" Sam held up a few strings of tinsel and classic hand-blown glass lights. "From… your time?" He looked between Steve and Bucky.

 

"Maybe."

 

"Hey. The tinsel is traditional. And these lights are… just… shut it, Sam." Bucky gently took the strings from Sam and laid them out on the floor. "It's gonna look fucking great. This place is gonna be goddamn festive."

 

"Okay, okay, I hear you, big man. Now enough with the cussing in front of the Christmas decorations. It seems blasphemous."

 

Natasha got up and came over to look over their shoulders as they unloaded boxes. She picked up some tinsel and turned it over in her hands. Her face almost looked like she had fond memories of something there. "You know," she said, "I may not be the best cook, and I'm not good with decorations -- I break them without fail, it's like a disease -- but I did learn recently how to mull wine. That's a holiday thing, right?"

 

"Yeah, sure it is. And it's great," Sam responded, grimacing at a wad of fossilized popcorn string. "But you don't have to make us comfortable with American holiday stuff. You could do something Russian. I'm sure we'd dig that too."

 

"I don't know if I'd say I'm _sure_ we'd be into it, but it's worth a try. What'd you do for Christmastime as a child, Natalia?"

 

Everyone paused a second at Bucky's use of her much more formal, much less used full name. He didn't seem to notice, just continuing to lay out dusty ornaments. Natasha noted everyone's pause and pretended that she didn't.

 

"Well, _James_ , we didn't do much."

 

"Aw, come on. You had to have a tradition, some dish. Maybe a drink? What'd you drink to celebrate?"

 

"Vodka."

 

"Vodka? Just… just… vodka?" She stared at him but betrayed no reaction to the question. It hadn't occurred to Steve to let Bucky in on this because it never seemed an issue before, but Natasha's home life, her childhood was never an issue under discussion. Never. She would talk professionally about her time pre-S.H.I.E.L.D. as a Russian operative but nothing younger than that training, and even that was a terse topic. Earlier was a no fly zone.

 

Bucky suddenly turned rather red, seeming to realize the thin ice he'd taken on the conversational route. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it breathing a cloud of dust, and stared at the decorations still in the box. "Oh. Well. Maybe you should mull the wine then."

 

"Yes, mulling wine is a fine idea."

 

"I love mulled wine."

 

"Great," Natasha grinned emptily and about-faced. "I'll mull some wine."

 

The three of them looked nervously between one another, but didn't say a word for a bit. It was unclear how to recover from that. Ultimately, returning to unloading decorations was their only option. They did so silently until Sam found something curious.

 

"What the hell?" He mumbled as he pulled out a folded square of some rough fabric about the size of a chess board. It was a greyish green color and a very odd texture, something between turf and wool. "Is it some kind of… tapestry? A moldy, ugly Christmas tapestry?" He found the folds of it and grabbed the edges.

 

Even Natasha was intrigued by the discovery and stepped over just in time to see what Sam was doing, but not in time to stop him. "Wilson, don't! It's--" The enormous plume of dust that erupted from the fabric choked off the rest of her warning, which came out weakly in between a series of coughs. "Covered… in dust!"

 

The snapping out of the thing had happened in front of Sam, sure, but it was Bucky who took the full brunt of the dust bombardment, being sat right in the line of fire. Steve stood as the dust literally settled, along with Sam, now holding out a bright green circular blanket of sorts. But Bucky stayed exactly where he'd been, eyes mashed shut and face screwed up. He'd managed put a hand up, but had otherwise been too slow to evade the onslaught. His face was sooted, dust motes dancing around his nose as he breathed, settling in little ashy clumps on his eyelashes and eyebrows and greying his hair. When he opened his eyes again they were like two points of blue surrounded by starbursts of white in a sea of grey. The dust had settled so completely and quickly on his face that it created a perfect mask of the expression he'd been wearing. Once he moved, it betrayed wrinkles and cracked.

 

"What in the actual fu--ah… ah… achoo!" Bucky sneezed, a big chest rattler, and sent his dust mote friends scurrying about again. "Fuck! Jesus fuck! Achoo!" Again and again he sneezed, eventually standing and shaking his entire body as dust wafted off of him in waves. "Shitting hell, motherfucker! Christ in a whorehouse!" More sneezes, more profanities and they were getting worse. "God in heaven, fucking hell, cock-sucking fuck lord! It's in my goddamn mouth! And my eyes! Agck! It tastes like an old nun's--achoo!"

 

"Bucky!"

 

There were tears streaming down his face at this point, leaving little trails in the dust. He looked at them, eyes red and brow all scrunched up. "What?"

 

"Watch your language."

 

"Oh, Steve, unclench. They're just--" Another sneeze. "Fuck me! They're just words. Christ."

 

"Shh!" Sam was back on the ground now, body draped protectively over the boxes. "Steve's right. No more cusses. _They might hear you_."

 

"Oh? And what?" Bucky was walking back to them, brushing the dust off his face, his hair, his shoulders and arms. "I'll get us all marked down on the naughty list?"

 

Sam snatched the box Bucky'd been reaching for away. "If you are not in the holiday spirit, you are _not_ helping put up the decorations."

 

"Yeah? You think so? How 'bout I show you where I'm gonna _put up_ the decorations?"

 

"You did not just threaten to shove Christmas baubles up--"

 

"Okay, you two, that's enough," Steve sighed, stepping between them and waving away the still floating plume of dust.

 

"Yeah. Enough. Now, get over here, Sam, and show me which of these doodads is the crockpot."

 

"Yeah, yeah. I'm watching you, Barnes." Sam brushed off his knees and walked over to Natasha in the kitchen. "Doesn't know what a crockpot is…"

 

Bucky smirked and went back to sorting ornaments. "I win."

 

"Oh, you win, huh?"

 

He cowed a little at Steve's comment and went back to de-dusting his hair. "Okay, so what was this dust machine Sam found?"

 

"Looks like a tree skirt."

 

"Oh, yeah, it does. And it's green… Never woulda guessed that. Too bad we don't have a tree. Or… maybe for the best. This thing is still really du--dusty. Achoo!" He rubbed at his face and tossed away the tree skirt. "Yeah. I'm done with the sneezing. Hadn't missed it. Don't wanna revisit it."

 

"All right…" Steve caught the skirt and refolded it. "Now what?"

 

"Now we put all this stuff up."

 

Three hours and many, many arguments later, the apartment was a retro winter wonderland as Sam was calling it.  Lit up and garlanded, the place was ready for their reclusive holiday festivities and its occupants were worn out. Everything had been hung up, draped or perched somewhere except for the dreaded tree skirt, which Wobbles had made a bed of to Bucky's horror. Almost everything had survived the process, except for one sad glass bauble, and there was only one decorating-related injury also due to that sad, very sharp, broken glass bauble. With the lights on and a small bell jingling every once in a while somewhere, the four of them stared dully at the television.

 

"You'd think people would get tired of watching the same shows every year, but no. Everybody loves the Peanuts." Sam was splayed out over the couch, one leg over the arm, the other propped up on the coffee table. He was currently plucking at the bandage on his hand.

 

"Why do they call them the Peanuts? They're not peanut-shaped, or… anything like that."

 

"I dunno. Maybe something to do with the creator? Aw, what a sad little Christmas tree."

 

"We should have a tree," Bucky grumbled, casting a wary eye over at his dust covered dog and her tree skirt bed. "What is that? A porcupine?"

 

"No, what? No. That's Woodstock, he's a bird."

 

"Fucked up looking bird."

 

Steve sighed, feeling suddenly antsy. "Maybe we should be watching something else, checking the news stations for updates…"

 

"This is a news station, man. Christmas trumps news."

 

"I don't get it. Are they kids? Are they shrunken adults? Why does that one have a blanket? They're kids then. This is strange." Bucky shook his head and retreated from the living room, contenting himself with Natasha's much less confusing company at the dinner table. "What are you up to over here? You've been quiet."

 

"Keeping busy," she answered with a smirk. "Here, strip these wires."

 

Buck took the wires and began stripping them as told, but he looked unenthused about it. "Building something… some--something?"

 

"You could say that. You don't recognize it?"

 

He leaned over and took a closer look. "Uh… an inhibitor?"

 

"Bingo. I'm going to put it up on the roof, maybe deter more images of us being taken. Pass me that electrical tape, please." She sealed off the wires and then completed the circuit. The television flickered and a few of their cell phones bleeped about losing service. "Ah, perfection."

 

"Nice." Bucky stood and held out his hand. "Gimme. I'll sneak it up there."

 

"I can do it, thanks." Natasha stood as well, sweeping out of reach and grabbing her coat from the rack. "Be right back, boys. Behave while I'm gone." She peered out the window momentarily and then melted into the darkness.

 

"You think anybody saw her?" Sam asked without the appropriate level of concern in his voice.

 

"I doubt it," Steve replied, "the lighting in here is not the best. They'd have trouble--what in the world?" He reached for the side arm under the coffee table, one of many now stashed strategically throughout the apartment. Someone, or something, was coming in through the front window, and it looked freakish.

 

"Alright, ass clown, back the fuck out of here, or I will riddle you with bullets."

 

"Nah, Buchanan, I'm good with the amount of bullets I'm already riddled with. But thanks." Everyone relaxed at the sound of Clint's voice. "I could use some help over here, though. You know how hard it is to haul a spruce up three stories with just a repelling cable? No, I imagine you don't."

 

"Clint, what are you doing here?" Steve tried his best not to sound like he was reprimanding as he advanced sans gun to help out.

 

"Sorry, boss man Cap, couldn't resist. And Nat had just fired up a blackout device. It was my moment to Christmas this… place… up… what the hell happened in here? Did the 1950's take a holiday shit?"

 

"Hey." Bucky extracted himself from the pine branches and glowered down at Clint. "It looks good. Don't."

 

"I'm not. I'm not. Chill. I was just…"

 

"Snarking off," Natasha finished for him, landing lightly inside and closing the window. "Welcome to our vintage Christmaspalooza."  

 

"I like it… it's… classic. Ahem. Well, now you have a tree. And… _and_ I brought gifts to put underneath it, 'cause I'm awesome like that." He unstrapped the pack from his back and detached from it a literal garbage sack, which he set gently on the ground. "Ta da. Presents, guys."

 

"Garbage is not the same as presents, Clinton, you know that right?" Bucky's arm twanged as a repelling hook ricocheted off of it. 

 

"Did you bring a tree stand, Barton?" Natasha began sifting through his pack. "Because, if you didn't, this can't stay in here."

 

"Yeah, I brought a stand. Contrary to apparently popular belief, I'm not a complete moron. All the time. Keep looking. No, it won't be in there, Sam."

 

"Well now might not help your case for that much-- oh, scratched that. He's not stupid, just cheap… You wrapped the gifts in newspaper? Are you trying to be a white trash stereotype right now?"

 

Clint shrugged, causing the tree to sway precariously. "Maybe. They're in the funnies at least. Nuh-uh. No touching. Is today the 25th? I don't think so."

 

"Aw, strict Santa over here," Sam grumbled. "Strict trailer trash Santa. Now you just need a beer gut and a two-week's stubble."

 

Natasha stood up then, strange contraption in hand. "Found it. Let's figure out where we're putting this thing. Where did you get this anyway, Clint?"

 

"From the forest, obviously."

 

"Oh, god," Sam sighed. "It's getting worse. You're trailer park Chevy Chase. We're going to get attacked by a squirrel and the firehouse is going to burn down, which would somehow out-lampoon National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation."

 

Clint snorted. "Oh, I checked for animals, man. Don't worry, I've seen that movie."

 

"What?" Bucky and Steve both asked.

 

"Don't worry, guys. We'll watch it, fill you in."

 

Steve didn't feel any better about that, but helped move the tree without comment, ignoring the splinters and tree sap. The only thing that was bothering him was just how illegal this tree was. But with the tree all mounted, it's tree skirt in place and a few sparse ornaments adorning its branches the worry faded to a slight niggling and Steve began to relax into the burgeoning holiday spirit. With the group of them all together, decorations brightening up the place and light-hearted programming on the television, it felt almost like a family celebrating the holidays.

 

As at home and comfortable Natasha felt in the new atmosphere of the apartment, she could not ever fully relax. For the next few days, despite the music, the silly cartoons and feel-good movies, the joking and games with the guys, the food and drink and Clint in a Santa hat every second of the day, Natasha could not ignore the threat possibly amassing outside their doorstep. That inhibitor she'd rigged up did more than black out their building from mass data collecting devices. It also had a short wave radio receptor in it, tuned in to and pirating the police transmissions. Every once in a while she would drift away from the merriment and check the scanner frequency in case of the criminal element popping up in their sleepy 'vacation' town.

 

This day in particular is was if her 'spidey senses' were 'tingling'. All her Widow training, all her experience in the field, all her natural intuition were setting off red alerts but she just couldn't articulate what was the cause. So she retreated to her room more often than normal to listen in on the scanner. Thus far, it had only been concerning coordinating traffic and parking on campus for the big Winter Commencement event that evening.

 

_"Dispatch, we need another officer on Main Street. People are still trying to park on the south end of the drive and it's going to block the procession._

 

_"Copy that. I'll send Frank. Chapel, how's the crowd?  
_  

_"Holding fair. Everyone's here for the graduation, nothing suspicious.  
_  

_"No officers needed for control there, so sent Newberry and Greene to Main Street._

 

_"Copy that."_

 

Natasha switched off the speaker. Everything was quiet, she just needed to take her mind off of it and go finish mulling that wine like she'd promised earlier that week. In the front the boys were deep in a game of Heads Up, cards stuck onto their foreheads and shouting clues at one another. No one had guessed their identity yet. Natasha had drawn this round up and it was pretty funny. Clint was having a hard time keeping his cool. He kept snorting and having to turn away. Natasha had chosen all past adversaries of theirs except for Bucky's which was the abominable snowman. Clint couldn't look at him without snorting.

 

"You're a big winter monster!"

 

Bucky turned to glare at Sam. "You think you're being funny, but I'm going to pummel your face in."

 

"No, no, I'm serious man. Like, Rudolph's enemy."

 

"I'm me? I don't know any Rudolph. You're not making any sense! Shh. Shush. Listen, you like green… and horns…" Bucky counted off his clue on his fingers.

 

Steve chuckled. "He won't guess that. Sam, you're not from here."

 

"I, in particular, hate you," Clint added in, still not able to look at Bucky.

 

"I'm… Rudolph?"

 

"Oh, my god! No! Steve's turn next. Steve… you're… uh… Russian. I think…"

 

"Wow, Buck, that narrows it down."

 

"I'm just going by the name, geez!"

 

Natasha grinned, passing by the chaos she'd created and opened up her crock pot. It smelled amazing. It smelled like бабушка and her spice cabinet, like train rides through Marrakesh, like that cabin on a beach in Sri Lanka. It smelled like good memories. As she sampled a spoonful that was only redoubled, bittersweet memories from every Christmas she could remember. It was ready.

 

"You don't have a face!"

 

"Oh, oh! Oh, he's Cap's! I'm the Red Skull!"

 

"Finally! Jesus! Okay Clint wins, but the rest of us are still clueless. Buck, back to you. Listen. You're big like a yeti. Is that cheating?"

 

"No, it's fine. It's fine right, Nat?"

 

She looked up from straining out whole spice pods and fruit peels. "For Barnes? Like a yeti? … Yeah, I'll say that's not quite cheating. No more synonyms, though." Natasha met Clint's eye and returned the rare grin.

 

"That's a cruel round," he said, sidling up beside her and sticking his pinky in the crockpot. "Oo! Hot!"

 

"That's what you get. And honestly, what did you expect? You do this every year."

 

"And it's worth it every year. Mm. It's really good, this batch, Nat. I'd say you're extra happy this year." He snuck a spoon in and ducked out of the way of her strainer. "What? You told me… where was that? Mongolia? Up on the Steppe? You told me the glintveyn was your favorite thing every year, every bright point of the whole mess, no matter how bad it was overall, mixed into one drink that makes _everything_ feel better. That's what you said, don't wail on me for reflecting on it."

 

"I remember, Barton. I was swinging at you for contaminating the pot." She snatched away his spoon and whacked it across his knuckles.

 

Hissing and shaking out his hand he backed off. "Sheesh, you're worse than a nun with that thing. So, what was with Ivan Vanko? They're never going to guess that one. You dealt with him along with Stark."

 

"Oh, I don't know about that. I think you underestimate them, they do their reading." She pointed over to where Bucky was gesticulating wildly.

 

"…know who it is! I remember reading about this person. Okay, Steve. Look… okay… You're… No. You… built… No. You're _father_ built something with Howard! Yes. That's my clue."

 

"That's over five words, Barnes! That's cheating."

 

"Goddamnit."

 

"Howard… Stark?" Bucky nodded wildly at Steve's question and Natasha just rolled her eyes, allowing the cheating to continue. "I'm… someone's son who worked with _Howard_? I… skip me. Back to you Buck. You're… huge, white, and furry."

 

"I'm not a person?"

 

"Nope!"

 

"I'm a polar bear?"

 

Steve sighed and dropped his head. "No. Back to Sam."

 

"Sam… you're… a _… mischievous_ Norse god!!"

 

"Oh! I'm Loki! I'm Loki!"

 

"Yes!"

 

"So, when do we get to drink this?" Clint asked beside her, calling Natasha back from the thrall of the game.

 

"Now. It's ready. I need mugs." She served up five glasses and handed them around, or set them beside Steve and Bucky who were still desperately trying to guess their identities. "We'll have a toast when they're done. I'll be right back." Slipping to the back for one more check, to still her nerves, Natasha even snuck a sip of the glintveyn. It was divine.

 

Flipping on the scanner's speaker, she slouched onto the end of her bed and indulged in a few more sips. There was more in the pot. It was crackly for a second, the wind must have been up. She waited patiently and ventured a bigger draught. Spice and warmth and joy filled her mouth and chest.

 

_"I repeat, multiple gunmen have surrounded the chapel. We need SWAT. They're demanding that no backup be brought or shots will follow. Repeat, they are holding the entire convocation hostage and… and demanding… I can't quite catch it. Something about the firemen. Does anyone read me? Hello? Dispatch?!"_

 

Years of high stress situations had engrained a particular response in Natasha when panic fought to set in. The world slowed down, her senses tuned in, amplified everything. Still some things couldn't be helped. She watched the mug slip from her now numb finger tips, saw it teeter so slowly, as if perched on an invisible edge, predicted where the first droplet of wine would fall, which move would save the mug from breaking on the floor. But she did nothing. She just watched it fall, smash and splatter. Some things couldn't be helped.

 

An attack on the school had never crossed her mind. An attack on them, yes, but she should have foreseen HYDRA doing something drastic like this to draw them out, to make a spectacle of them. But she'd been here, grown complacent. She had foreseen _that_ biting them in the ass, and here it was, many-headed, fangs bared, venom dripping.

  
_"Is anyone there?! They're saying now that if… the firemen… if the firemen are not here in thirty minutes they're going to start killing a graduate a minute. We need the military in here, something! Please, someone copy, please! They're going to find me soon, they're sweeping the rafters. Does anyone copy?"_

 

Some things just could not be helped.

 

Natasha stepped over her spill and picked up a microphone, wiring it into the receiver.   
 

Some things just could not be helped.

 

"Officer, this is Agent Romanoff, codename Black Widow. You will have back up shortly. Hold your position, do not tell them we're coming, do not meet their demands. Over." She ripped the receiver from her laptop and left it in the ground beside the remains of her mulled wine. Some things just could not be helped, but they could be taken care of. And they were exactly in the position to take care of this particular thing.

 

Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SELF ACTUALIZATION parts 1 and 2 are up next and are already completed, just awaiting editing. They'll be up this month.
> 
> Happy Holidays, you're all lovely sugar-plum fairy treats and whatever other winter-themed nonsense is applicable. Your hit counts, kudos and comments are gifts etc. you know the drill! Toodles.
> 
> Also, there *may* be a follow up series to this story called 'Hazing and Other Welcome Rituals'. It *may* be about how Bucky learns to play nice with the Avengers. We'll have to see.


	18. SELF ACTUALIZATION

He had a song stuck in his head. It was distracting. He already didn't know who he was. He didn't need some nuclear-apocalyptic lyrics clouding his focus.

 

"I'm not a person?"

 

"Nope!" Steve looked positively jubilant.

 

"I'm a polar bear?" He knew it was a stupid guess as he made it, but, god damn it, who he was was already something batshit crazy. Plus, he wasn't very good at this game anyway. Might as well go whole hog about it.

 

But then, Steve was disappointed… tough shit. "No. Back to Sam." Fuck, it was his turn to give a clue. Again, something he wasn't good at.

 

_I'm waking up, I feel it in my bones. Enough to make my systems blow. Welcome to the new age, to the new age..._

 

Great, now he was humming instead of coming up for a clue for Loki. Loki… he'd read about him and the Invasion of New York a few times. The whole thing interested him. Myths were based on him, he was the… Norse god of mischief and magic, now to make that into a five word clue…

 

_This is it, the apocalypse…_ That was actually five words, but it wouldn't work. Focus, Buck. Stupid song, so damn catchy.

 

It'd played the night before, while he was up knitting instead of doing what he should have been doing, dismantling HYDRA piece by assbackwards fascist piece. His shoulder kept him from sleeping, prickling little needles of white hot pain when his mind was restless. That had started a week or so out of HYDRA possession, a result of not having whatever they pumped into him. Turned out there was one thing they got right. It felt like his body was trying to rip itself apart at the seam, rejecting the metal arm. The rest of the time he could usually tune it out to a dull ache, when he was content, occupied. Nights were the worst, especially now that he was grounded. As he'd sat there, distracting himself with the needles, headphones blaring, he'd considered how the words in the song felt pretty appropriate to shit going on, to his life. But he'd brushed that off. It was about as coincidentally fitting right at that moment, playing parlor games with Steve and Sam, as it had been the night before.

 

"Sam… you're… a… _mischievous_ Norse god!!" Damn, that was actually pretty good. Bucky grinned and laughed as Sam guessed correctly and preened over his win.

 

The song wasn't that fitting, really. But then again… maybe he was too cocky. Maybe he should pay attention to coincidence, read the sign posts it left. Sign posts like Natasha pouring mulled wine and then slinking off to the back again.

 

She was checking that police scanner she'd rigged up. Oh, yeah, Bucky knew that that inhibitor was more than that. He'd tapped Natasha's own feed that very night and had been listening in to the police chatter whenever she turned the receiver on. In fact, he'd jerry-rigged a comm to transmit the signal right into his ear.

 

_I'm radioactive, radioactive. I raise my flag, don my clothes. It's a revolution, I suppose. We're painted red to fit right in._

 

No, signs weren't for him. He'd been through too much shit. That held too much meaning if it was all a part of some--

 

His earpiece had crackled at first, interference from the inhibitor and possibly the wind, but then the voice had come through loud and clear. And full of terror.

 

"I'm…" Bucky stood, mid-guess and put his hand to his ear to make sure he was hearing right. "HYDRA?..."

 

"What? No. Bucky? Bucky. No." Steve was shaking him. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated. He was afraid.

 

"No, Steve. I'm not… no. HYDRA is attacking. They're holding up the school's commencement. They're going to start shooting people." Thank God it wasn't a dirty bomb, or he'd be eating his own words and every little twinkle of coincidence would blip hard on his radar. No, a school shooting was _so_ much better. Goddamnit.

 

"What?"

 

"What the hell?"

 

"What are you talking about, Buck?"

 

"Natasha!"

 

They were scrambling around him, but Bucky kept completely still. He needed to listen, to hear the full situation. The plan was already forming. Then Natasha's voice rang out calm and deadly clear. That changed everything. _'We're_ coming,' she'd said. Not just Bucky, not him alone. The team.

 

He finally shook off the stillness, interacted, contributed. After all, they were going as a team. "I've linked into Natasha's transmitter. It just picked up an SOS from the campus police radioing for SWAT backup because a group of armed men are holding the graduation ceremony at gunpoint until 'the firemen' come to them. It's HYDRA. They're--"

 

"They're doing exactly what we said they would do. They're retaliating." Natasha marched out of her room, already loading clips into the stash guns. "But instead of coming to us directly, they're acting like the conniving cowards they are and using hostages to draw us out."

 

"Unacceptable. This changes things. We'll have to deal with them accordingly." Steve was suddenly cool and collected. He stripped off his holomask and threw it onto the table.

 

"Exactly what I was thinking. They wanted superheroes in this place. They're about to get them."

 

"Roger that," Steve barked and marched for their room. "Suit up, everyone. We have civilians in danger and terrorists to bring into custody." He stepped back out tightening the strap of his shield and with a parcel in his hand. "Time to show them who we really are." He tossed the package Bucky's way.

 

It wasn't nearly as heavy as it had looked. Really, it was feather light, and pliant. Ripping it open, Bucky held in front of him Steve's drawing in three dimensions. A uniform.

 

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

 

Steve leaned around the door frame, pulling his own upgraded uniform on. "It's a uniform. You need one. Everyone else is suiting up."

 

"No. I got that." If it hadn't been an emergency situation, Bucky would have taken a second to marvel at this thing. Flexible yet clearly bulletproof, black but stitched with blue threads, just subtle hints to his old Commandos uniform in the collar, the buttons, the belt. He began stripping right there in the living room to pull this thing on, still amazed that it existed. "So, what? You shit uniforms now?"

 

"No, but Stark does." Natasha responded instead, jogging up in a frankly stunning black leather jumpsuit. She grabbed Bucky, at this point with just the pants of this thing on, and dragged him towards her bathroom. "He told me recently this is a favor to be repaid by, when he meets you, being able to, and I quote, fool around with your eight-track arm, T-1000, end quote. Come on. As dashing as you look, we may want to keep your fresh face and identity a little lower key this time. And since we don't have a helmet for you--"

 

"It would mess up your pretty hair anyways," Steve called from across the hall to the sound of his shield clicking into place in its holster. Buck resisted the comeback.

 

Natasha mashed her lips together to keep from smiling and then continued. "--we need to black out your eyes. Sit."

 

As tight as the pants felt, they moved really well as Bucky sat. Natasha waved for him to pull the undershirt on and then went to town coloring around his left eye. While he was buttoning up the jacket, Bucky had a sudden, very important question. "What is this exactly that you're blacking my eyes out with?"

 

"It's camouflage paint," she didn't pause from coloring but her voice warbled slightly. "It's war paint."

 

"It's eyeliner, isn't it?" He sighed.

 

"Yeah. Smoky eye smudge stick, to be precise."

Bucky shut his other eye and nodded, just accepting it. He snapped on the belt and the other five holsters as Natasha kept madly coloring in his eyes. Shoes on, he was just waiting for his makeup to be finished when Sam barged in, duffel in hand.

 

"HO-O-OT! Now, if you two are done playing dress up, we got kids to save and asses to kick. Your ordnance, Buck."

 

"All for me?" He asked, almost smiling as he began holstering a dozen or so handguns and rifles, knives and grenades.

 

"All for you. There you're done."

 

Bucky quirked a brow at himself in the mirror. "Maybe we should get me a mask, huh?"

 

"You look great. Really brings out your eyes." Natasha was gone before he could respond.

 

He holstered the last of his arms and then jogged out into the living room. Despite the nearly fifty pounds of firearms and ammo now strapped to his body, he felt surprisingly light, part of the uniform, he supposed.

 

This was it. This was what was going to make the reputation of the Winter Soldier, whatever he did out that door. For now though, he definitely felt like he looked the part, unnecessarily tight body armor, exposed metal arm, eyeliner and all.

 

"You look nice," Clint said at the window, those purple glasses on, calibrating his quiver. He had no room to talk. What did those glasses do anyway? It was dark outside. "Very goth chic."

 

"Nice glasses."

 

"They're glare neutralizing. Ready to do this?"

 

"You have no idea." The fabric in the gloves didn't even make noise when he flexed his hands. This was some high end matrial.

 

"Okay, Natasha and I are taking Barton's motorcycle. We're storming the gate. But, only after Falcon has dropped off Buck and Barton at high points. We need you two taking out targets from above. Falcon will do the same, providing mobile air support. All clear? Comms."

 

Natasha stepped forward and spilled earpieces onto the table. "Rogers and I are notionally surrendering. We're going to avoid civilian fatality by doing this, but it will rely on everyone else taking down as many HYDRA operatives as possible when the signal is given."

 

"The signal will be either of us mentioning Nick Fury. Clear?"

 

"Crystal."

 

Steve nodded Bucky's way and clapped his shoulder. "Alright, Sam, the commencement is being held in the college's auditorium. According to Natasha's blueprints, it has two roof entrances. Let's find them roosts."

 

"Who's first? I can't fly both of y'all over there at once. Too heavy."

 

"Take Barton," Bucky answered immediately. "I'm used to getting places without people noticing me. Besides, I've got the night camouflage on."

 

This was it. This was what he was made for, the one thing that he could just do. He'd always been a fighter, a brawler. Steve might've been the one getting grief for starting fights, but that was only because he couldn't finish them himself. Bucky started just as many, finished more. Bucky could fight. Give him a weapon, he could kill. They'd learned that about him right off in basic. His C.O. had called him a natural soldier. And that's exactly how it felt, natural.

 

For a few months, coming out of the HYDRA haze, that fact had plagued him. It had been a quality they could exploit because it was already a part of him. The Winter Soldier wasn't only a victim of torture and programming. He was partially, on some level, born a monster. HYDRA just weaponized it. But that attitude shifted eventually, when he remembered what drove that instinct. He fought to protect, to take care of others. That wasn't monstrous. It just needed to be tempered. And with his higher functions back in place, that was no problem.

 

He had one goal racing through the shadows of the streets. Saving those hostages. To what extreme he had to go to do so would depend upon the people making hostages of them. Their fate was on their own heads. Steve would probably see that differently, but he'd always been more of an idealist. Bucky saw the world the way it was. These men were HYDRA and they had dug their own graves. Bucky wouldn't hesitate to assure that their digging hadn't been futile.

 

_I'm waking up to ash and dust. I wipe my brow, sweat my rust._

 

"You hummin' Imagine Dragons, man?"

 

Bucky paused on the fire escape he'd been scaling. Had he been humming without realizing it? "Uh… maybe…"

 

"Well stop. You're on the comm, it's jammed open."

 

"And we don't really need to have that kind of dark message on the brain for this mission," Barton added in.

 

"It's stuck in my head. Has been since last night," Bucky whispered back and hauled himself to the top of the building. From there he had a clear path to the auditorium. Hopefully, no one would see the flash of his arm in the moonlight from up there. "I'm two minutes out."

 

"Copy that. I'm just droppin' off the Hawk." Bucky could see the shadow circling down to the top of the auditorium that had to be Sam and Clint.

 

He locked his holsters and began counting strides. Easy distance between buildings, low trajectory for jumps, minimal noise. That was until the auditorium. He'd be by the skin of his teeth there.

 

"Hawk's in the nest. Falcon circling."

 

"Copy that," Steve's voice rang through the comm. "Winter?"

 

"En route," Bucky grunted, landing on the final roof between himself and the auditorium. "Stand by." It was a long jump and this was a narrow roof. By his estimation, it was 50/50. At the other side of the roof Bucky started. Five long strides, arms thrown back then forward and he was soaring through thin air. Just not quite far enough.

 

"Fuck." He knew as his jump reached its peak, he'd fall about two feet short. And that would make some serious noise. There was a car exactly where he was going to hit. Talk about a loud crunch. He was balling up, bracing for impact when all of a sudden he couldn't breathe. "Arrgh!"

 

"Gotcha! Damn, I always underestimate how much you guys are gonna weigh. Come on, big guy." Sam, hoisting Bucky by his chest holster, flew him the extra two and a half feet, and dropped him on the roof with minimal crashing. "Falcon circling, Winter's here."

 

"Thanks," Bucky grumbled and straightened himself out. With his bearings back in place he headed for the southwest roof entrance, sidearm drawn. "I'm in."

 

"I have eyes on six--make that eight operatives, just in the north sector alone." Clint was completely opposite where Bucky had just come in, perched on the edge if a catwalk, bow drawn.

 

Keeping to the wall and out of sight, Bucky edged along his rafter pathway. He was counting his sector, but also looking for the angle he needed to pull out his favorite weapon. It was broken down into three pieces on his back right now. Not for long.

 

"Winter? Head count?" It was Natasha this time. She was getting impatient.

 

"Seven. My eighth is currently unarmed, holding a phone and a hostage."

 

"That's not enough. Unless it's an old STRIKE team, that's not HYDRA's style. They always use the numbers to their advantage."

 

"Who said it wasn't a STRIKE team," Bucky replied glumly, staring down one of his old handlers. "They've probably wired the building to blow as well. That's Urich's favorite plan B."

 

"You recognize them?" Steve's voice was edged.

 

"A few. Old back up. A handler or two. They're the asset team."

 

"Here for you, no doubt," Natasha sighed across the line. "Are you in position?"

 

"Affirmative," Bucky said as he unstrapped his sniper rifle and began assembling it.

 

"Uh… guys? I hate to poop on the party, but I've found the numbers y'all were talking about. There're about thirty guys in full gear milling around a few vans a block east of there. I assume they're the backup for the front line inside."

 

"I think you made them angry," Clint said. "Took their favorite toy and turned it against them. This must be how they plan on taking it back."

 

"Well, that toy has something to say about that this time." Rifle fully assembled, Bucky had Urich in his sights. "Waiting for the signal--" Target abandoned, he whirled, knife in hand, instead for the attacker at his six-- at his ankle… pulling at his boot?

 

"They're wiring up the students," Bucky's non-attacker wheezed. He was a cop, badge and all. And he was bleeding from two gunshots and a gash across his cheek. "They're wiring up the students with explosives for when you and your people show."

 

Bucky sheathed the knife and laid aside his rifle, bending down to put pressure on the wound in the man's gut. "Cap? Widow? You read. I have a cop here saying they've wired up more than the building. The kids are bombs too for when we make our grand entrance."

 

"They've put bombs on the students as well?!"

 

"Barnes, ask the officer why the students are wired."

 

"Sir," the man was unsettlingly pale. He'd already lost too much blood, his guts were probably perforated too. "Did they say why the students are wired with explosives."

 

"Only… only that it was a surprise for the heroes. I assumed… that… they'd blow us all… to… to kingdom come… when… you… showed." He was breathing heavily, had clearly used what was left of his energy to crawl to Bucky.

 

"Thank you, officer. Shh, rest now. We'll take care of it." He bit off the top of a clotting packet and squeezed it into the two gsw's. "Did you two hear that? It's a surprise for us. Assume the worst."

 

"See if you can identify the explosive they're using."

 

"Nat? If it's the same they've wired the building with, it's homemade. Nothing to hack here."

 

"Damn it."

 

Bucky was still kneeling on the ground, waiting for the clotting agent to stop the cop's bleeding under his hands. "That means one or several of them has the switch. Knowing STRIKE, it's just one. The head."

 

"Your buddy, Urich?" Clint asked.

 

"Probably."

 

"So… what's they're angle? Why do they have all these guys out here having a barbeque?"

 

"My guess?" Bucky murmured, now edging back to stare down his 'buddy.' "They're going to kill everyone in front of us and then demand me and possibly the rest of us for custody in exchange for the town. Those backups are most likely stationed to storm the private buildings around here and exterminate."

 

"That's cheery."

 

"That's HYDRA. They deal in death and terror anyway. Use it to their advantage when there's something they want. Like now."

 

There were a few angry sighs across the line. Then Natasha spoke up. "What was that Barton said about the toy?"

 

"We took it, they're angry and now they're trying to take it back. Probably could continue the metaphor to include breaking one of ours for revenge."

 

"Yes. Exactly. Why don't we give them their toy back… or let them think we have."

 

Bucky sat away from his scope, heart in his throat. "That sounds risky. If I go down there and then fight my way out of them, it'll blow up in our faces. Literally."

 

"That's why you're not going to be the one going down there." It was Steve speaking now, resolve in each word. "I will."

 

"Barton, do you have the calibrator--"

 

"In my pack."

 

Natasha sounded confident when she came back on the line. "We'll just make another Bucky Barnes. How long do we have?"

 

Bucky checked the clock. "Fourteen minutes."

 

"Falcon?"

 

"Already on it. I'll stall 'em."  

 

Almost instantly there was a commotion on the ground. Their scouts had seen Sam flying in. "Well, go out there and walk him in!" One of them shouted louder than the rest. Odd. STRIKE was usually more on the ball that that. With the Pierce head cut off, maybe two stupider ones had grown back. Urich, would have definitely qualified as a significant downgrade from Pierce, if that were the case. And it seemed it was, since he wasn't pausing to receive orders so much as madly barking them. That would work in the gang's favor. Bucky followed Urich through his scope to the door, noting along the way that despite being a moron, he hadn't gotten sloppy. He, at least, still operated by the book.

 

With Sam's grand entrance came quite a bit of noise, not quieted down until Urich fired off shots into the air. They lodged into the ceiling alarmingly close to Clint's face. Looking his way, Bucky found him checking for holes in his arrows' fletchings. On the ground, Sam was making noise, a lot of it, putting on a show.

 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! My hands are up like y'all asked. I'm being compliant. That's your thing right? Compliance is rewarded or whatever. What's going on? Y'all having a party?"

 

"Shut up! Where are the others? The soldiers?"

 

"I'm a soldier, man. Ex-paratrooper in fact. Got my VA card right here if you wanna--"

 

"Shut up! Why is it just you?"

 

Sam, hands still in the air, jerked his thumbs down towards his back and turned a little. "Flight suit." With a pump of his elbows the pack revved up and extended the wings. "Tada! I'm just faster in the air. They're on their way."

 

"Put the wings away and get on the ground. Hands on your head."

 

"Mm! Frisky."

 

"And someone gag him."

 

"Kink--" Sam was left on the ground, bound and gagged, as two of them tried to pry the exo-suit off his back. Urich showed his bit of brains then.

 

"Don't! Leave it on him. It could be rigged." Sam mumbled something through the gag and then grunted as Urich's boot collided with his ribs. "Move him over there, with the students."

 

"Okay…"Clint whispered into the comm. "Sam has done his part in stalling. I hope you two are close. Things are getting dicey here."

 

"Under a minute out." They were on the motorcycle, booking it by the sound of the engine rev and the wind roaring in the comms. Bucky hoped Urich's notoriously short patience held out that long. His trigger finger was looking itchy as he paced. Like most of the pure-HYDRA STRIKE team members, Urich was a combat enthusiast verging on bloodthirsty homicidal maniac. He really wanted to see someone blow up that night.

 

Half of Bucky was twitching to put him down right then and there. He had his sights trained on his temple. It would be a clean shot. But its fallout would be much, much messier.

 

"Get here faster," he muttered under his breath. Someone had to save these people from the monsters all around them. Maybe even from the one in the rafters meant to save them. He apparently needed saving too.

 

_All systems go, the sun hasn't died. Deep in my bones, straight from inside._

 

"You're humming that song again, Buchanan."

 

"I know. It's to keep me from blowing this bastard's head off and getting all these people killed."

 

"Oh. Well… I'll hum it too."

 

"Aw, listen, Bucky-Steve. We're being serenaded for our entrance." The motorcycle's engine was audible outside and then abruptly silent. They were here.

 

"We're coming in. On the ready everyone." It was eerie for Bucky, hearing his own voice over the line but not being the one to use it. Just afterwards noise flooded the speakers and the auditorium. The goons were scrambling to bring Nat and Steve in, Steve looking a dead ringer for Bucky. Clothes, hair part, strut, metal hand peeking out the left sleeve, and everything. He was even wearing Bucky's damn favorite leather jacket.

 

"Whoa. Doppelgangers tonight, kids…" Clint mumbled over on his perch, possibly to himself. He maybe wasn't the quiet op kinda guy. Bucky hoped he wasn't a banterer. He couldn't handle banter in the field.

 

"Ah, finally… the asset, and a pretty friend. You must be the Black Widow."

 

"What? You don't recognize me?" Natasha was sauntering in. She looked perfectly at home, screamed confidence. Bucky noted she had _everyone's_ undivided attention. "I've been told I have a memorable face."

 

"Without the red… meh. Hard to tell." Urich actually _touched_ Nat's hair. That hand he would probably mysteriously lose in between being detained and booked. "Thanks for bringing our asset back to us. We might just let all these people live if you cooperate further."

 

Nat smiled, a venomous simper. "Oh, you _will_ let them live. You will take me and Barnes here, along with all the intel I have on the locations of the three remaining SHIELD bases that are abandoned, though still viable, and you will release all these people unharmed in return. That's our deal."

 

"Admirable. Truly, you're offer, but not enough." Urich waved to some lackeys and cuffs were brought out. "We will take you and our asset, yes. We will take you both and your intel, as well as the Falcon, but we will not release these hostages until the three of you are in a solid-state HYRDA holding facility and your intel is proven accurate and useful. Hands on your head, Widow, operative."

 

He seemed undeterred by the fact that Nat was still smirking at him. "Operative, hands behind your head."

 

Steve complied, looking dour with Bucky's face. "Have a name, you know."

 

"Not according to our records. Now, Ms. Romanova, where is Captain America?"

 

"Oh, you know the Captain," Steve said, shrugging his right shoulder, little smirk on his face. Dead on imitation. "Head in his ass. We had words, opposing views of the situation, you see. And… well, he fucked off as requested."

 

Urich waved two men to the front door, another two to securing Natasha and Steve. "That's fine. We'll track him down, operative, don't you worry. But, man, just look at you." He took the EMP arm band and secured it to Steve's left arm himself. In fine form, Steve let the arm go limp the moment Urich powered the clamp on. "Got a haircut, looking all like a person, walkin' and talkin' and everything."

 

"Bite me," Steve spat back, appropriately surly but still blasé. He was a better Bucky than Bucky sometimes.

 

"Oh, so that's the personality we wiped out? Maybe we should keep that around this time."

 

"Nah, you can't handle all this. Definitely can't keep up. Why d'you think they wiped me to begin with?" Steve had been taking small steps towards Urich, and Urich being the aggressive son of a bitch that he was, hadn't backed up an inch. At this point Steve was talking down his nose right into Urich's face. "People don't enjoy hearing graphic death threats. And I'm damn near the most creative person you'll ever meet."

 

Urich back up then, covering it with a scoff. "Alright, E. E. Cummings, to the van." He pointed to the door and led the entourage departing, leaving just a six man security detail on the hostages. Big mistake.

 

"Wow, you know who Cummings was? I didn't think you could read. You do know he was a poet though, right?" If Urich had a response, he made it quietly as the comms outside didn't pick it up.

 

Bucky took a deep breath and prepared to wait. "I'm not that lippy," he breathed.

 

"No, you do rail off," Clint said quietly. "Smack talk is right in character. Like everything else. Steve does a pretty good Buchanan impression."

 

"Known me long enough. You ready?" His shoulder was aching again. This party needed to get started.

 

"And raring."

 

"Good thing about these STRIKE guys…" Bucky aimed between his three guys' heads. Count would only be six seconds tops in total. "They're not all that smart. Six out in six seconds. You agree?"

 

"Completely. Awaiting the signal."

 

"That's right… the signal."

 

On the other end of their comms there had been some surface noise but not much talking. At request for the signal, Steve and Nat became rather chatty again.

 

"You changed the van restraints," Steve commented. "Much less torture-murder in here. I like it."

 

"You only got one arm. Only needed one arm restraint. HYDRA is economical. Also the lab wanted to test the new magnetized cuffs. You like 'em?"

 

"Mm. Very confining."

 

"I'm glad you're both enjoying yourselves. Time now for the Widow to disclose her intel. You said you had locations for three empty SHIELD bases."

 

"Underground bases, yes. All empty but all still intact, in case of reoccupation."

 

"Locations, Ms. Romanova…"

 

"Of course, the first is located beneath Central Park."

 

Clint grumbled over the line. "That base is obsolete. They trained me in dead drops in its archives. Like a catacomb down there."

 

"But it'll look good when Urich sends men to check it out. It still has its intruder deterrents in operation, right?"

 

"Undoubtedly."

 

Then it was fine. Natasha was in the middle of describing the second base when Clint and Bucky stopped talking. "…there. I promise, in the mountain. There'll be a sentry box to grant you access. That's how you'll know you've found it."

 

"Speaking of, just how do we access these bases. We'll need the security codes and procedures."

 

"And you'll have them. When those people are clear. I want to see it on the news."

 

There was strained silence over the line for seven seconds. Knowing Urich, he was fighting off the impulse to kill Natasha on the spot. "No. Our deal was--"

 

"Our deal was that you would take us and all the intel I have on the _locations_ of these bases, and you would release those people once we were securely detained and the intel panned out. We said nothing about access codes."

 

"You're a slippery bitch, aren't you?"

 

Steve dropped character a bit then, gasping in indignation. "Don't you touch her!" Though, if Bucky were the one in that situation and Urich had lifted a hand, he'd probably have barked something similar, but more colorful. That must have been what he'd done, gone to slap Nat. The strike never fell.

 

"You two've become cuddly, then? Huh?"

 

"That's not the intel on SHIELD bases. Though, if you want to hear some pulpy details in answer to that question instead, I can oblige. The last spot, however, it's almost as titillating."

 

"Yeah? Something special?"

 

"You have no idea." Bucky could practically hear the sultry bat of Natasha's eyelashes in the pause that followed. "It was… someone _special's_ favorite hideout."

 

"Oh, really? Like who?"

 

Bucky drew a deep breath, stilled his body and set his finger on the trigger.  

"Nick Fury."

 

Three quick squeezes and six HYDRA operatives lay motionless on the ground, hardly a sound echoing in the auditorium, save the muffled thumps of bodies hitting the floor.

 

"Targets neutralized," Bucky muttered over the comm. "Woulda preferred killing them, but the tranqs were instantaneous like you said."

 

"That only took four seconds," Clint chimed in. "We trimmed off two whole seconds." He was climbing in Bucky's direction. "Let's dismantle this kill box."

 

"They didn't even move to radio out."

 

"Clueless."

 

"Like I said, they're not all that smart." He grabbed Clint's hand, hauled him over the railing. "What was that in the arrowheads? It… poofed when it hit 'em."

 

"Paralytic gas. Nifty, huh?"

 

"Yeah. So… they're awake?"

 

"Wide awake."

 

"And have an arrow lodged in their shoulders?"

 

"In excruciating pain, yes."

 

Bucky fought the urge to smile, swinging the roof door open and scanning for HYDRA thugs. "That's pretty sadistic, Clinton."

 

"I thought you'd like it."

 

They hopped down and kicked the main door in, finding everything just as they'd left it, HYDRA on their asses and the civvies safe. "All right, all clear at the auditorium," Clint announced and then began dismantling the explosives mounted throughout the building. That left Bucky to free the students of their boom suits, but that was okay. He got to do so while being serenaded by the sounds of Steve crushing Urich's face in. Big mistake only having the one arm restraint.

 

"EMP, Natasha." That was the last they heard, the pulse having knocked out the comms. Bucky wasn't worried, though. They were clearly doing just fine. The EMP would have knocked out their cuffs as well as the comms, all the comms. They would be free in a minute or so and checking in once all the systems rebooted.

 

Bucky was finished freeing the civvies and busy hauling the zip-tied HYDRA agents out the front door when the line opened back up on Steve's end. "Well, there you are. Have fun knocking Urich's head off?"

 

"Oodles. Listen, we've secured the vehicle and Urich's team, but he did manage to radio out when the systems rebooted. You're going to have reinforcements on top of you shortly."

 

"I thought he was unconscious, sorry."

 

"It's fine, Steve. But Bucky, no killing, alright?"

 

"Yeah, yeah. We've been over this, bad press, scarring for the community, yadda yadda. Only knock-out shots."

 

"Hey, y'all? Did you know there are about fifty geared up bruisers heading straight for that auditorium." Sam must've been back in the air.

 

"That would be the backup, I assume. Clint, Bucky, you can hold them off until we get there, yes?"

 

"Oh, it would be my absolute pleasure." Clint dropped down his line, along with a sack of bomb parts. "Building's clear of c4. I say we lock these folks in here, for their safety, and wait for the infantry out front. The surrounding buildings restrict access to these doors, they'll be forced to bottle neck on approach. It'll be like shooting fish in a barrel."

 

"With rubber bullets."

 

"Non-lethal shots, I heard your assassin-talk-down to Buchanan. I know the drill." He covered his comm. "Doesn't mean it can't hurt though, right?"

 

Bucky nodded and cleared his throat, turning to address the poor traumatized students and their families. "Listen up, everyone. The men who held you here are sending in reinforcements. For your safety, we're going to lock you inside this building until we have those men detained. Please, do not try to leave. You will only be putting yourselves in danger and providing hostages for them. We will open the building as soon as it is safe. This," he held up a hand held he'd kept in case one of them lost their earbud. "Is a radio, it will allow you to speak to one of our team. If you hear someone coming in from the roof, radio us. If someone in here needs medical assistance, radio us. Who was in charge of the ceremony? You. Take the radio." He thrust the talkie into an older woman's hands and then marched for the door. "Just remain calm. We're going to take care of this."

 

" _Wow_ , Bucky," came Natasha's voice in his ear. "Looks like Steve isn't the only one who can do an impersonation. That was very Cap-like."

 

"I'm bursting with pride," Steve chimed in.

 

"Shaddup, both of you."

 

"And you didn't even drop one f-bomb," Clint said, helping him to barricade the door behind them.

 

"Don't you fucking start too."

 

"There it is."

 

"Yo! Chatty Cathies, y'all got incoming. Your six." Sam dropped their first attacker but then zoomed off towards the apartment.

 

"Thanks, Sam, but where's the fire?"

 

"Got something to pick up. I'll be back soon, don't worry, and then I'll take care of that roof situation."

 

"Yeah, the roof situation may be a problem…" Clint hopped onto a car, shot a shadowy figure off the side of the building and then reloaded. "Maybe they're not as stupid as you had hoped."

 

"I've got the ground if you wanna go up."

 

"I do prefer the view from above."

 

"I figured." It wasn't a problem. Bucky was in his element now. Two clips in already and there were as many thugs on the ground as darts. Clint had been right about the bottlenecking. Not a single one had even managed to get within arm's reach of him yet. It was just target practice. Then he ran out of tranqs.

 

"Sorry, fellas. These are gonna hurt." Lead rounds in, kneecaps out.

 

There were more of them now, and even when they couldn't run at Bucky, the bastards could shoot, unlike their snoozing comrades. Bucky had to give up his prime position and move. And that meant he had to engage manually, not that that was actually a problem. There was something rewarding about actually feeling the crunch.

 

"Stop smiling, James. You'll lead them to believe you're enjoying yourself." The goon to his left went twisting, flipping, crashing and Natasha stood in his place. "Not good for your reputation."

 

"You stop smiling."

 

"I already have my reputation. They call me the Black Widow. It think that says it all." She simpered, electrocuting another guy until his eyes steamed.

 

"Non-lethal force, Natasha!" Barked Steve, bulldozing through a huddle of them.

 

"He's alive. Just might not ever see again."

 

Bucky snorted, dodging a very sad attempt at knife-handling, depositing it in the senders thigh instead. Maybe he did like banter in the field. "Heads up, Steve! Dipshits in mass at your four." Bucky shot down two of them. Steve took care of the rest in an arguably less kind fashion. That one guy's jaw was never going to be the same again.

 

"Special delivery!" Sam swooped out of nowhere and dropped his package, leaving with it a temporary state of awe. That shield was quite the statement piece. And hearing it twang against peoples' heads really took Bucky back. Steve'd been out of Bucky disguise and in his Cap gear when they stormed in, but there was something about that shield that sent the message home. The thugs were actually running away from it now.

 

"Winter! Hold the door."

 

Behind him, in their attempts to get out of the way of the shield, some of the HYDRA squad was trying to get into the building again. Bucky shot their legs out from under them and took up fighting off the flood, but it wasn't nearly as much fun.

 

"I'm almost out of lead now, people! Where're these guys coming from!?"

 

"They're cockroaches, swarm out from the woodwork." That was accurate. And some of them wouldn't stay down when they really should have. Bucky was pretty sure he shattered one's cheekbone when he came at him again. Nonetheless, they were thinning out and quite a few were just moaning on the ground instead of getting back up to fight.

 

Problem -- or good thing depending upon how you were looking at it -- was the ones who were left were something of an elite force. Bucky recognized them immediately, the cleaners. They came before--or used to come before Bucky and cleaned up the guards or whoever for the hits he was going to make. They would be difficult to put down without putting them down for good. And unlike Steve and the rest of them, these guys had no problem using deadly force. None at all.

 

"There! At the door." Two of them had somehow side-stepped Natasha and were now charging Bucky's way.

 

"Is this going to be one of those 'if we can't have him, nobody can' situations? Because I gotta tell you, fellas, that just makes you seem like stalkers." Shots in both quads didn't even slow them down. Oh well, knives it was! Time to see them move without tendons.

 

But then the whistle drew his attention. He caught the arrow just as it was about to impale his head.

 

"Heads up!"

 

"A little warning, next time, Barton!"

 

"I was just making sure you weren't dozing off. Now, close your eyes."

 

Bucky parried two shots with his left and promptly clamped his eyes shut. Even with them closed, he could see the blinding flash of white.

 

"You're welcome."

 

"Thanks," no point in not grinning now. No one could see him anyways. Those two were down before they knew what hit them, still flailing around blindly. Across the tiny war zone, Natasha had strangled out one of the team and Steve looked to have incapacitated the other with a shield lip to the forehead. There was a scar that wouldn't fade quickly.

 

"Well… that just about takes care of that." Clint landed in the middle of them, Sam stutter-stepping to a stop a few yards past. "Roof's clear."

 

"That was fun." Sam swaggered up cracking his neck and stowing the wings. "Who wants to shock the tranqued ones awake and beat them unconscious again?"

 

"Oo. I do." Bucky kicked one in the head who was stirring, retrieved a knife from another.

 

"Not now, boys. Now we have to deal with the cleanup. There are bodies everywhere, HYDRA agents to be cuffed and shipped to a deep, dark prison. And don't forget our graduates inside. We have to take care of them too. In a slightly different manner." Beating baddies to a pulp put Natasha in a good mood. She made jokes.

 

"What the hell were all these guys doing here anyway? Why weren't they more organized, saving the goods in the van instead of running around helter-skelter?"

 

Steve shrugged, pulling a pack of zip-ties out of his belt. "This is HYDRA. We cut their head off, figuratively speaking. The body just flails around uselessly until the next two replace it, I suppose."

 

"Yeah, I'd say this qualifies as flailing." Clint was pulling arrows out of bodies, some far less gently than possible. "A big, fucking tantrum that did nothing productive."

 

Natasha was pacing, appraising the situation.

 

"Well… seriously, someone needs to escort the people inside out, but not this way if at all possible. Not through the garden of bleeding bad guys. As to the situation out here… well… yeah, I'm going to have to phone a friend for this one…" She waved Clint and Sam towards the auditorium, tapping her foot as the phone dialed. "Yeah, hi, Pepper. You got a second? … Yeah, well, not him, I've got a job for his new private security force… HYDRA, I'd say about fifty-five… mm-hmm beat the snot out of them, yeah… Oh, yes, please. A quinjet would be lovely. Yeah-huh. Thanks, Pep, take care."

 

She hung up and, dialing again, grinned over at where Steve and Bucky were tying up baddies, cracking jokes and reminiscing. "Just one more call… then we're all set-- secure line WC-100. Cover compromised by HYDRA, require cleanup crew at the safe house. Pack and ship to dead drop for WC-002. Over. Alright… let's finish zip-tying these guys and then get out of here. This is going to be a media shit storm."

 

Her mouth said media shit storm, but her face said superhero candy shop. She even zapped a guy an extra time with a grin on her face. Natasha wasn't alone. Steve was talking without the normal two-second weighted-with-the-worries-of-the-world pause and the stuff that followed had half the drama. Sam and Clint had gone inside practically giddy. It was like they'd gone to Coney Island all day. Natasha was _still_ grinning throughout the zip-tying process, making this the single longest period of time that Bucky had seen her exhibiting physical signs of happiness. And he was right there with them. This was the most he'd felt like himself in years. This is where he belonged, with these people, doing this kind of stuff. He'd found his calling.

 

For this having been a community disaster, they all sure did have a good time with it. Some people just loved their jobs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more left! 
> 
> Happy reading (and holidays)!


	19. SELF ACTUALIZATION pt. 2

"Well, that's a big grin. Somebody's in a possibly alarmingly good mood." Clint took the duffel from Bucky's hands and stuffed into a storage locker as he stepped into the quinjet. "Did you have a fun time tonight, champ?"

 

"Call me 'champ' again and I'll show you how possibly alarming this good mood can turn." He rolled his eyes as Clint continued right on unfazed. "What am I, five?"

 

"I'll take that as a 'yes.' Sit down and buckle in. I'll strap Wobbles' crate down." He took the dog cage from Bucky as well, stashing it and Wobbles inside underneath a port shelf and securing her there. "And leave you to your strange, elated-type brewing."

 

Steve, duffel also stowed, stepped past him and sat down next to Bucky. "You do look happy, Buck. Is it 'cause we're leaving? Or is it because you like knowing where you stand?"

 

"He's more than happy, he's glowing like the rest of us from that baddie-bashing high," Sam said on Bucky's other side. He'd already kicked up his feet and looked like he'd fallen asleep.

 

They were relegated to the rear passenger seats despite Bucky being programmed to fly just about anything, Steve having his own training and go-get-'em attitude, and Sam being a literal aerial expert. It was completely a non-issue, though, because they all were really on cloud nine from their fight. Despite his surliness, Buck actually was feeling pretty blissful. He had reasons to be.

 

"You're both right. I'm glad to be out of this prison, nice and nurturing a pain in the ass place as it was. And I like knowing I'm doing what I should. But I'm also buzzing with adrenalin… and something else…" He clicked his teeth looking for just the right word. It was difficult because it'd been a while since he'd actually used anything like it.

"Maybe ‘fulfillment’?” Steve offered.

 

“Yes, I feel fulfilled. That back there, the HYDRA demolition, was _very_ gratifying. Payback, a chance to prove myself… to myself, and saving those people… all very satisfying. And crushing Masters' face in. I really liked that part too."

 

"It's quite a relief, right?" Natasha added in, stepping up from the rear of the jet where she'd been loading and checking equipment. "You'd be amazed what a weight off your shoulders just accepting yourself is. Like you remember after a long time that one thing you'd forgotten but couldn't stop agonizing over forgetting. And, best of all, you won't need adult supervision anymore..." She hit a few buttons beside the door and sealed them in. "Which means we are leaving here and not coming back, not to this cover or any other. You're ready for the real world, Barnes. And thank goodness for that. I don't even mind being proved wrong about the way that it happened, since we're finally leaving."

 

Natasha sat down in the co-pilot's chair and flipped a switch or two, as Clint powered up the engines. The jet purring quietly, he turned around to look at them all. "I love that we were able to park a quinjet on the roof of this building without anybody noticing. Sixth favorite part of this evening."

 

"Gotta love that cloaking system."

 

"Yep. Alright then gang, where to?"

 

They just looked at Natasha.

 

"You do know that I'm not technically in charge anymore? Never was. But, actually, for now I've got this one last time. We need to go home, D.C.. We need to get Steve's house, and mine, broken down and moved out before any of this hits the news. With Stark on it, he might be able to keep what happened quiet for two days. Just enough time for us to move house." She buckled herself in and starred entering in a flight plan.

 

"Uh… move house where?" Sam always asked the relevant questions.

 

"Well… I was thinking _home_ home for Steve and Bucky, New York. Clint owns a crummy building in the bad part of town for some reason." He nodded expressively beside her as he went through the flight tests. "You can stay there for a little while, until we clear up all our situations and can come out of deep cover. And this way we can still have the holidays with friends. Pepper even invited us to the tower for New Year's. But, Wilson, if you're ready to jump ship in D.C., we understand."

  Sam was already nearly dozing off in his seat, but he peeled an eye open to respond. "Meh. We'll see. Maybe I can get transferred to the NYC VA branch. They've replaced me already, no doubt, in D.C.."

 

"We'll make the call there, then." She turned to face forward. "And _then_ , you all are making your own plans and decision from there on out. I'm nobody's mother."

 

Clint turned off the interior lights, easing the jet into the air. "D.C. it is. ETA forty minutes. No barfing. I'm a sympathetic vomiter and you want no part of that action while I'm flying this thing."

 

And with that they were speeding away from the firehouse and all its irritants and comforts. On to the big leagues, back to life and the real world. Bucky was a touch anxious as he sat back there, wishing he hadn't packed his headphones in his duffel, his arm aching a little. But it wasn't so much a worried anxiousness as an anticipation for what was coming. Moving on, independence, home. He was excited. He was free. He knew who he was, what he wanted to do, and how he was going to do it. The lack of uncertainty was all very invigorating. Sam had to kick him still a few times during the flight.

 

He was still just as lively the next morning, after they had packed up and loaded Steve's apartment into the quinjet, as they were having a quiet breakfast and waiting for Sam to return from this errands. The twitchiness had gone by then thankfully. He was brimming instead with enthusiasm. Quietly. Internally. While methodically working his way through pancakes, eggs, and bacon, Bucky made those plans and decisions of his own that Natasha had warned of. And he enjoyed it. There was so much to do. So much he needed to do, that he wanted to do, and finally _could_ do. He was going to get a motorcycle. Check in on his family, what remained of it. Buy his own damn clothes. Relearn New York. Atone for all his sins. You know, the usual. He couldn't wait to get started.

 

His fresh start. Away from the Night Raider bullshit. Anonymous in big, bustling New York. No one would look twice at him, much less recognize him. He could just live his life out in the daylight. And destroy HYDRA by night in a ridiculous costume and makeup, but it was what _he_ wanted to do. Maybe he'd find a mask. Or some goggles. Clint could probably help him find some; he found those stupid glasses somewhere. Hopefully Clint's building had a roof or deck, somewhere he could still watch the sunset on occasion. He'd have to find a gymnasium.

 

There were some less exciting things as well. He'd miss Steve, sure, crutch that's he'd been for Bucky. It was time all the same, maybe even because of that. He'd still see him. Probably quite often. Sam and Natasha would be less so, but he was his own person now. He could do something about that if he wanted.

 

His face was hurting from smothering the grin. Bucky let it go, smiling into his coffee cup. Natasha's eyes were on him when he looked up. She knew. She always knew. No one else seemed to notice, engaged in eating and reading as they were, but Natalia had a way of knowing. Steve, as always, was perusing the newspaper and Clint was flipping through an old magazine they'd found somewhere in Steve's place. They all oozed quiet contentment.

 

A few minutes later, Natasha interrupted that quiet. "Does anyone feel like going to the museum today?" There was the tiniest, most self-satisfied smirk playing across her lips as she asked. "I have a feeling there's an exhibit on that's going to be under serious renovation soon. I thought we'd see it before that starts."

Her amusement spread to Clint instantly, left Steve shaking his head with a resigned grin. Bucky felt like he'd been left out of a joke. "What? What're you guys grinning about? What'm I missing?"

 

"You'll see. Come on. Field trip time." She climbed up off the floor and took their paper plates away, even with Clint still snatching food off of his. "We'll pick Wilson up on the way."

 

"I thought you were done making plans and decisions for these lay-abouts," Clint jibed as she also tried to take his coffee away. And failed.

 

"Just once more, for old time's sake. Trust me. It's a good idea."

 

They'd all learned to trust Natasha on pretty much anything. This suggestion was no exception. Still, as always with several big, independent egos in one place, there was some questioning of the plan involved.

 

"This is a big metropolitan area. There are so many people doing so many things, they're not going to notice us. Right? Do I have to wear the hood and the hat?" Natasha's instructions had been very specific, down to the particular sweatshirt and hat Bucky had on. "I feel ridiculous."

 

"It didn't bother you when you were sneaking out at night. But no, not with the hood up. Just, keep your face partially covered. And glasses on, Steve."

 

"I know the drill."

 

"Everyone just needs to keep from drawing attention to themselves and this should be fine."

 

"It should be fine anyway. Nobody knows _my_ face anymore--"

 

"Well, maybe not in most circumstances, but we're going to one place that changes the odds." Natasha flashed a glance back at Bucky in her rearview mirror. She was so pleased with her idea. Her eyes were especially green. "Please, James. Just--"

 

"Trust you. I know." He folded his arms and gazed out the window.

 

This was her car, one of her cars apparently. She'd taken it out of storage. It was nice, but it was small. They didn't make commuter cars like they used to. As they were sat, one of the three of them in the backseat had to lean forward some to make room for everyone's shoulders to fit. At that moment, Clint's elbow was lodged firmly in Bucky's side. Part of him thought the shit was doing it on purpose. Doubly uncomfortable, squeezed into a back bench half the size necessary for them and with not knowing where they were going, Bucky's shoulder twinges popped up again. He rubbed at it listlessly. Judging by the feel under hand, he'd have to fix it up again that night, after everyone else went to sleep.

 

At least it was a pleasant drive. The city was quiet and the skies were clear. Seeing the monuments was nice as well, realizing that actually some things didn't change. That's when Bucky caught onto which museum they were going to.

 

"The Smithsonian? We stealing something to further cement our bad reputation in this town?"

 

"No…"

 

"Hey, hey! Remember when I met you right over there, Steve? And Nat, right here?"

 

"And you flirted immediately? Yes."

 

"Ah… good times. Good times. I missed home."

 

"So did we all, Sam. Okay, parking garage ahead. Hats or hoods on, be relaxed." Natasha got them past the garage attendant without a second look and soon they were walking towards the National History branch. And then suddenly not.

 

"Uh… entrance is that-a-way."

 

"I know. We're not going through the entrance. Can't have the metal detectors giving up the game, can we? That would be attracting unnecessary attention." She replied almost too quietly to hear. Bucky pushed past Clint to get even with her.

 

"That's not a problem. I won't set them off. It's designed not to be detectable… _on special ops_."

 

Natasha's pace didn't waver. "Nevertheless, we're going in off the books. See?" They rounded a corner and came upon a fire exit. “Like a private entrance."

 

"Yeah…" Bucky scoffed, shooting a look Steve's way. "'Cause doing illegal shit is a good way to guarantee staying off the radar."

 

"It's just to be safe… there. It's wired not to sound. Let's go."

 

Steve gave Bucky a tired shrugged and followed Natasha inside. Bucky gave in as well, but not quietly. "Just because you can, Tasha, doesn't mean you should."

 

"Hush, James. Steve knows you're back on the Cap bandwagon. You don't have to show off your ethical high horse for him." She shoved him farther inside and disconnected her door jimmy.

 

"I'm not…" he grumbled. "Once a spy…"

 

"Always a spy," Clint finished for him. "You'll get used to it. Or… you won't and it'll always bother you. But the discomfort will diminish just a bit," he held up his fingers an inch or so apart. "Just enough so that you feel bad about it not bothering you constantly. And then you'll have to chew on that instead."

 

Bucky blinked down at him, honestly at a loss for words for a moment. "You know, you're not helping."

 

"I know. And I hate myself for it. Actually, I hate myself all the time. That comes with it too, you'll see. That you never get used to. Come on, they're leaving us behind."

 

Bucky stood thinking about what Clint said, watching his stupid purple ball cap bob off out of sight. Ethical discomfort, emotional anguish, self-loathing. Not a great sales pitch. But then again, Bucky dealt with all that already on a day to day basis. He shrugged. "Can't get any worse," he told no one in particular and marched off after his similarly afflicted friends.

 

If there was one comforting fact Bucky had learned from the past year or so of his conscious existence, it was that things couldn't get any worse than the Winter Soldier's life. That was hell and he'd trudged through it until Steve and co. had dragged him out. He didn't like thinking about it, about the pain and confusion and all the blood on his hands, but it did serve to provide perspective. Being hated by the public and having to conceal his true identity, constantly second-guessing motives and methods, all that was nothing compared to being a prisoner of his own mind, sluggish and terrified but so charged with rage and with no way to express it other than causing destruction in the direction HYDRA pointed him.

 

He'd lived through drugged hazes, feeling his brain cook behind his eyes, sleep deprivation until he couldn't remember what his name was much less second guess instructions. Needle after needle, hypnosis and image bombardment, every kind of physical and psychological torment and brainwashing technique HYDRA's mystic scientists could machinate. When they couldn't coax out compliance, they simply made it. His memory had been picked apart and then sewed back together, just like his arm but with something new, something unnatural and somehow worse than titanium. And he'd been left, alone, a weapon, fighting against himself from the tiny cage in his mind where Bucky Barnes still survived. Nothing, literally nothing could be worse than all that.

 

Reflecting on that left Bucky in a paradoxically upbeat mood. He was just about to fill his friends in on this self-discovery and to thank them for allowing that to even be possible, when he saw where they were heading.

 

"You know I don't give a sewer rat's ass that I'm going to be in a constant state of moral-conflict from here on out, guys, at least now I have the _ability_ to be morally--holy shit."

 

He skidded to a dead stop. All four of them were grinning. Even Clint had a little self-satisfied grimace on. All grinning and standing in front of the exhibit entrance, swarming with people and brimming over with the past. Specifically, every surface was splashed with red, white and blue and most had Steve staring back at them, bold and patriotic, and sincerely, reverently honored.

 

Horrified, Bucky found his eyes burning. He was not tearing up. That was not happening.

 

He knew the nation loved their spangled hero, his best friend, but to see him so monumentalized was deeply affecting. It brought home just what had changed, painted for everyone to see what he'd accomplished, and reminded Bucky that some things were better than the old days. For one, they'd succeeded in allowing such a memorial to exist. To the world, they'd won the war, Captain America had saved the people from HYDRA not once but twice now. They trusted him to keep them safe. They still had to, if this exhibit remained and remained so well attended as it was.

 

"Holy mother of God. This--this is incredible." Without really thinking about it, Bucky wandered through the entrance. He wasn't paying any attention to anyone or anything except for the displays. He was immersed. Painting, photographs, news reels, the place was littered with Steve's past. They even had some of his old things, a bicycle, some clothes from before the war. It was surreal. They'd literally turned Steve into a museum piece, into living history. There was a narrator, reminding Bucky of things he already knew, glass barricading him from interacting with things he'd once held, once given to Steve.

 

"That pair of shoes, I loaned you that pair of shoes," he whispered, in front of display case with an old pair of oxfords. Crummy leather, scuffed to hell in there like it was the damn holy grail or some shit. Steve was suddenly beside him again. "Guess I'm not getting them back ever."

 

"Yeah, guess not. Not worth half a penny anyways, though. Two inches too big and the sole worn thin on the right, but I needed something to wear. Couldn't graduate bare-footed."

 

"You were determined to, if I recall rightly. And I do. Pride and all." Bucky shook his head and scoffed, but remembering himself and where they were, pulled his cap lower over his face and moved on. When he went on to lip off some more, he did so much more quietly. "Nice painting back there. Did they get you big enough over the whole wall?"

 

"Hey, I didn't commission any of this. I was just as surprised as you are when I walked through it the first time."

 

"You've been to the exhibit on how great you are more than once?"

 

Steve was completely red under his hat and behind his glasses. "This is only the second time. And I didn't come for the me part." His hand pulled Bucky away from the display showing Steve's transformation, where the Steve Bucky had known the longest stared back up at him one more time. "I came for what was familiar. There weren't many places then where I knew I'd feel like I belonged, where I had a place."

 

They stopped, Bucky still staring back at the photographs until Steve nudged him one more time.

 

"I came to see my friends again."

 

"Yeah, I understand the impulse. You know you're the same to me no matter how ridiculous you look, but it's nice to see that scrawny kid looking _up_ at me again… oh." He finally followed Steve's eye line, looked up at the display they stood in front of. It was an impressive one, full mural in the background artfully painted, narrator pouring out information that made Bucky's head spin. The uniforms, the old familiar faces. "So, this is how you feel any time anyone brings up Captain America. Like suddenly you're the subject of a history lesson."

 

"Pretty much."

 

"That's… that's my uniform. Or, it looks like it--they--they can't have the real one." Bucky's throat felt tight. He looked up at the manikin wearing his clothes and wanted to rip them off, put them away somewhere. Put them back on, go back.  

"No, it's not. I thought the same. Apparently, and I asked about this, apparently after… Cap and Bucky were lost, the SSR had the uniforms duplicated for a memorial. When I--Cap was un-iced, they recovered the original and… well, there it is, but the Bucky uniform is a remake. But from the forties."

 

Bucky was having a hard time looking at his own face up there. "Gee… they really idealized some things. I don't think I ever stared off into the distance that majestically."

 

"No. You glowered. But they're good renderings. Good tributes to the Commandos."

 

"They are." Steve was right. It was nice to see familiar faces. There they all were, their old friends. "Good to see you, fellas," he muttered under his breath and stepped away. As he did an arm slipped through his.

 

"Enjoying the stroll down memory lane, James?" Natasha. For being so teasing, her voice was tight. "You're okay?" There it was. She was worried about his mental state.

 

"You could say that. It, uh, hurts a little, but in a good way. I'm fi--I'm…fine…"

 

Try as she might, Natasha's distraction and gentle tugging hadn't set Bucky off course enough. He still came face to face with himself. His very own display, complete with account of death and honors.

 

"A moving tribute," she murmured beside him. "And one that'll be amended soon. And most likely expanded. And you're okay?"

 

Bucky nodded. "Seeing your own in memoriam isn't _unsettling_ or anything. … I'm fine. I'm flattered and I'm fine."

 

Natasha kissed him on the cheek and quick as she'd appeared she slipped away again. Steve was in her place not seconds later. "I know what you're feeling."

 

"Offended that they got my birth year wrong?"

 

Steve chuckled. "No, it's an out of body kind of strange, reading about your own death."

 

"Well," Bucky shrugged his good shoulder, "at least they talked me up. Look at that: 'excellent athlete' and I 'excelled in the classroom.'"

 

"When you wanted to, yeah. Sometimes history's kinder than the truth." He elbowed Bucky and moved along, but Bucky stayed put for a second. There was a film segment playing on repeat in front of the display. It was him and Steve, just talking, laughing. It made Bucky's shoulder ache. With all of his willpower Bucky stepped away, kept from reaching out and touching that whole image of himself.

 

"Well, look at that handsome bastard."

 

"Mm, that face was a terrible loss to us all."

 

Clint and Sam were there, for once timely in their irreverent humor. The melancholy Bucky'd felt faded quickly. "Y'shoulda seen the reaction the smile would get. I know it's a memorial, but did they hav'ta make it so gloomy?"

 

"I thought that's just how your face worked."

 

"Yeah, don't act like the brood ain't part of your repertoire."

 

Bucky snickered quietly and allowed himself to be herded off from the self-pity panel. There was a shit ton more to see, besides. Most of it to see again, suddenly antique and frail. He soaked in every tiny item, every word, image and reimagining. A few minutes later, with the whole front room toured, they were left revisiting, milling. A few displays even got four pass-bys. Standing in front of the 'Cap's Shield: a Symbol and a Tool of Freedom' display for the second time, Sam and Clint were debating about their favorite part, the old costumes, while Bucky watched people react to the exhibit.

 

It was fascinating, a little self-indulgent, and possibly his favorite part. He found a special kind of comfort in seeing people interact with his past, like it wasn't just some wispy memory he'd dreamt up and romanticized. It was real and his reactions to it were human. He was too busy watching a young family gawk at the exhibition to notice that Steve returned to their side, Natasha in tow. Or that Natasha had a Captain America shirt on.

 

"…wanna put on that uniform man, I don't care that it's quote-unquote old and out-dated."

 

"It's cheesy by now. Barnes' uniform though, that one has lasting potential. It's timeless with the navy and brown."

 

"It's boring. Stars and stripes or no dice."

 

"You just like it 'cause it's so tight. Exhibitionist."

 

 "I don't wanna blend in up in the trees like you. Oh, and it looks like someone else doesn't either. Gone to the gift shop, you two?"

 

"Nat wanted a shirt." Steve sounded tickled. He edged up beside Bucky and bumped shoulders with him. "How we doin' over here?"

 

Bucky didn't look away from the girl with her mom as he answered. "Just amazed at all this. I mean, would you look at that. She's got a stuffed _bear_ dressed like Bucky Barnes. A bear."

 

Something pressed against his chest, soft and fuzzy. A bear, just like the one the little girl had. "Yeah, they sell 'em in the shop."

 

Bucky chuckled and turned the little toy over in his hands. What a funny thing, to become a novelty item. But it was more than that for some, that little girl, for one. She had it hugged tight to her chest like it was very dear to her. She followed her mother, holding onto coattails as she walked and staring up at the displays like they were magical. To his right Steve and the others were discussing something, but Bucky was entranced by this girl and her bear and her awe. As he was watching, she looked through the glass of one panel and caught him. She stared right back, bear clutched even tighter than before and other little fist now yanking at her mother's sleeve. But her mother was reading, told her to wait a moment. The little girl didn't even blink, she just kept gazing at Bucky, eyes growing as the implications of who she was looking at dawned on her young mind. Bucky waggled his bear back at her and her mouth dropped open. She pulled even harder and called to her mother but, lucky for Bucky and his impulsiveness, the mom was occupied. Knowing he'd caught a break, Buck gave the little girl a nod and a wink before turning away and shuffling to a different display. He was so tickled by her wonder that he couldn't help himself.

 

The group moved with him, still chatting idly, but Bucky's ear was trained farther behind. Sure enough within a moment he heard a tiny voice exclaiming, "it's Bucky Barnes, Momma. Over there."

 

"No, sweet girl," the mother replied with predictably tired patience. "This panel here is about Sgt. Barnes but it's just a picture. Remember what we read together? He gave his life for our country. What does that mean?"

 

"He--he died, but--"

 

"Right, he died. He's not here anymore, but your bear is dressed like him. Was this too much, baby? I know you miss Daddy, but--"

 

"No, but he was _just_ there."

 

"Sweet girl, no matter how hard you wish, things don't just change--"

 

"I saw him. He had a bear too!"

 

 Bucky lost his focus listening as Natasha and her tutting appeared beside him. "You've spent months fighting to not be in the public eye as Bucky," she whispered, "and now, where we could all get caught, you decide to not even try to hide your identity a little?" She took his bear away and straightened its utility belt.

 

Bucky shrugged his good shoulder. "She saw me," he whispered back. "What was I supposed to do? Kill her?" Natasha scoffed and pushed him along.

 

Pausing past a crowd of people, he snuck a look over his shoulder. The little girl wasn't pointing in his direction, but she did seem to be looking around for him. He stepped out of sight behind Steve's war bike and waited for more of Natasha's scolding.

 

"You didn't have to wink," she said when their neighbors had passed. "That little girl will be haunted forever by that wink. 'Was it him?' 'Was it not him?' 'Am I crazy?' You've ruined her certainty of reality."

 

"Meh. It'll be less bewildering in a year or so. And besides, wink was better than a smile."

 

Steve ducked around the display as Bucky was talking. He had a slightly amused, slightly worried look on his face. A look that said, I too may have made a mistake. "Yep, that smile is a killer. Let's go. She's made me too."

 

"Great now she's going to be positive that she once saw Captain America and Bucky Barnes together in their own exhibit. Good job, you two." As irritated as her words were clearly meant to be, Natasha sounded more amused. She shoved the two of them towards the exit of the exhibition, towing Clint and Sam along as well. "We need to go anyways. Got a damage control meeting slash welcome back slash holiday party waiting for us in New York. Don't want to be late for that."

 

One more look told Bucky that the little girl had given up convincing her mother. That did not mean that she had dispelled her notions however. She waved when he turned. Bucky smiled this time.

 

* * *

 

Barton lived in a shit hole. Bucky loved it immediately. It was like finally coming home. The building was about two centuries old, smelled like old socks and burnt food and creaked every time someone sneezed. It had character, unlike that monstrosity they'd dropped the quinjet off at.

 

Stark Tower was the opposite of Barton's building. It was huge, clean and glaringly modern. It smelled like a professionally perfumed doctor's office and hummed all the time. It was the epitome of character-less modernity and Bucky felt judged by it. He felt out of place just standing on its roof. Riding through the automated, and completely silent elevator was even worse. And then it _talked_ to him? A building shouldn't be sentient. That was just asking for trouble. Bucky couldn't run out of that place fast enough, so it didn't bother him at all that its owner didn't have a chance to welcome them or see them out. From what he saw of that place, Bucky didn't really care to meet Tony Stark.

 

But Barton's place, that death trap he was comfortable in. He knew how to work everything and understood the people living in it. They all arrived at about the same time, though Natasha and Clint had beaten everyone else. Natasha had driven. Steve parked his motorcycle up on the curb and forced the helmet off Bucky's head just as Sam was driving up.

 

"Don't worry, Buck. No one knows you out here. We're nobody." He set the finally wrenched free helmet in its spot and locked his bike, invisible force field and all or some shit. Bucky didn't stop to ask how you could 'lock' a motorcycle.

 

"Can I park here?"  

"Cops don't patrol for permits if that's what you're asking," Clint replied as he fished through a duffle for some keys.

 

Sam parked exactly where he was, half on the curb, half in the street and got out, shrugging his shoulders. "You weren't kidding, Nat. This is the bad part of town. What's that smell?"

 

"You'll get used to it." Clint had found his keys and was jimmying open the door. "Come on, before… well, before the smell changes to something less… alright."

 

Bucky wished he had his things. A knife at least would have been nice, but all that Stark was shipping over at discrete intervals in unmarked vans. Or that's how Natasha explained it. He sighed and picked up Wobbles' crate, trudging after them. But then, that was when he found himself comfortable, as soon as they stepped inside.

 

"You really need to move, Barton." Natasha side-stepped an actual hole in the stairs and shook her head.

 

"Nah. This place is the best. I like the people and nobody bothers me." Clint stopped outside a particularly discolored door and jiggled with the keys for a second. "I'm not leaving. Who else would take care of the tenants?"

 

Bucky didn't blame him. He understood that impulse and already knew he liked this dump. Wobbles liked it too. She went limping around the apartment Clint led them into with more energy than she'd had in days. It helped that Lucky was there. She was up that dog's ass constantly. "Makes more sense for somebody in our line of business than that huge sore thumb of Stark's. Talk about a bull's eye on your head every minute of every day."

 

Natasha joined Bucky on the couch, pushing off the old pizza boxes and dirty clothes with a grimace before she sat. "There are middle of the road options, though. Anonymity, Barton, does not require that you live like a homeless person would under a bridge."

 

"I dunno, a homeless person usually has more stuff than this," Sam said from the kitchen. "Do you even have plates, man?"

 

"Nope."

 

Sam looked around at them, disbelief in his eyes. "How are we going to have a party here? I can't cook here. You have two coffee mugs and a spoon."

 

"We could order pizza in."

 

"And then… finish carpeting the place," Steve commented kicking through boxes to sit down next to Bucky. "I'm surprised, Clint. I thought you… you seem… this is not what I expected. I--I apologize for seeming judgmental."

 

"Meh, whatever. I'm all bark, no substance. A piece of garbage, just like everything else in this place," Clint replied with absolute apathy. He didn't seem to care at all, or was past the ability to care. "Hey, Lucky. I know, guys, the place is a wreck, but it'll clean up in an hour or so and then it'll be habitable by beings other than those made of garbage and self-loathing. Or fur. Promise." He looked up from petting the dog, blinked at the concern on several faces. "What? I haven't been here much. I hate cleaning. Part of it's Katie's. I think. I'm fine. Stop worrying about me and help me pick up some of this crap."

 

Forty-three minutes later they all discovered that, as shitty as the building seemed, Clint's actual apartment was really decent once it was no longer being used as a landfill. He didn't have much in it in the way of furniture or belongings, but it was sizeable and had the bare bones of a nice home.

 

"Dear God, you have books. You can read, Clinton?" Bucky pulled down a mysteriously spattered tarp, revealing a number of built-in shelves, all full. "Who did you steal these from and why were you hiding them?"

 

"One: I can read. Two: I bought and/or collected these myself over the years. And three: that tarp was up from the time I was testing bursting putty arrows. I didn't want that sticky crap all over my one valuable collection. Besides my arrows. Books and arrows." He climbed out from under the couch that Steve and Sam were holding up and dragged the vacuum with him. There was also a net pulled out. "I guess I just forgot that it wasn't part of the wall."

 

"Yeah, that happens when you don't clean up the putty splatters and they become a new layer of plaster. Oh, look. You do have a breaker box. Here. Do you remember that time we sat in your house hiding out for three days with no power because you said you couldn't throw a switch without being exposed on the roof?" Natasha chipped off the last of the caked on putty and hopped to the ground. "Because you were incorrect and I got food poisoning from that crap in your fridge for no reason."

 

"To be fair, I did have a fairly serious concussion those days also. I wasn't operating at top performance."

 

"And I'm guessing you tested more than putty arrows in here as well," Steve said, positioning the couch back over a large scorch mark in the wood of the floor.

 

"Yeah, that's from an explosive arrow. That line of holes in the plaster is from a duplicating arrow and those grappling hooks stuck in the ceiling are from when I was experimenting with multifunctional arrows. Note: grappling hooks and boomerang functions are not a good mix."

 

"Why?" Sam asked, holding up the mangled carcass of what looked to have once been a metal platter.

 

"Uh… acid arrow? That would be why I don't have much dinnerware. They were test targets. What? I make these things myself. I gotta test 'em somehow."

 

"I'm guessing the acid arrowhead test phase was also what left your countertop a pock-marked battleground."

 

"Yeah, linoleum does not stand up under acid rain." Clint joined Sam in the kitchen, handing him an arrow head. "Here, if you shape it fast enough and let it dry, the putty can be our plates and crap."

 

"Lovely."

 

"So, you… thought to save your bookshelves from putty, but it didn't occur to you to cover any of this other stuff before testing? Like your television? Why is it only showing blues and oranges?"

 

"Well… the scorch mark happened despite my fireproofing. The holes were a misfire and the grappling hook was a failure. The acid mishap gave me the idea for a covering, but really, what can you use to save stuff from acid? The tv was a victim of an electronic disrupter turned power surge. Not everything works the first time, hence testing." He picked up his phone, an older model with the wire and everything and began dialing. "We're still getting pizza, right?"

 

Bucky, thumbing through an old copy of Fitzgerald, edged over to Steve. "I love this place. It's perfect. I think I'll ask if I can stay here." Steve looked up from messing with the television, face exasperated. Bucky continued at the same level of enthusiasm. "I wanna help him test arrows. I wonder if he'll let me dabble with my own modifications to gear in here too."

 

"Probably," Steve sighed. "You're going to destroy this place together, the two of you…"

 

"Probably," Bucky agreed happily and, picking Wobbles up, headed over to help with molding putty into plates. "But because of that, this is exactly the kind of place I need to be. Nobody can treat this place worse than Clint. If I have an episode, he won't give a shit what I break."

 

* * *

 

Just as Bucky had been right about Barton's place encompassing perfectly the type of man he was, he found several hours later that so did Stark's tower. He was uppity, he was high-tech, and most of all he was a lot of flash to hide a lack of substance. Or rather, in Tony Stark's case, to hide a mountain of insecurities. Bucky saw right through him immediately. He came strutting in, all swagger and disdain, but that was a show. It faltered as soon as he actually looked someone in the eye and spoke to them. He wanted them to like him, desperately. And he wanted to have what they had, specifically the bond the group had formed. That was obvious by the fact that, despite scorning the place, its shabbiness and their ill-kempt states, he kept trying to insinuate himself into their conversations, their plans, and their friendships. And this was with the guests that he brought temporarily forgotten.

 

In the wake of his grand, bombastic entrance had come a few people, one Bucky did know and a few he didn't. Maria Hill, grinning in a pinched, I'm gonna kill Stark soon kind of way followed, wine bottle in hand. She was a welcome sight, someone who wouldn't take nonsense to damper whatever the hell was going to come with Mr. Big Shot. Behind her was another woman, obviously too good for Tony but who had to be, by the exasperated look on her face, the Pepper Potts Tasha and Steve had described as Stark's long-suffering gal and wrangler. And trailing last, meek and mild, and apparently set on blending into the wallpaper, came Dr. Banner. He was a smallish man, retiring and polite, whose soft-spoken-ness did nothing to impair his enthusiasm or genuineness upon meeting Bucky. He was the polar opposite of Stark. Bucky had read about him and gotten the short history on his work and condition from Steve, Nat and Clint, but he was still pleasantly surprised to meet him. He especially appreciated his muttered tongue in cheek.

 

Together with Ms. Potts, Dr. Banner acted as a buffer to dampen some of Stark's ostentation and to keep him in line. All the same, he was like a tornado. Sometimes there was nothing they could do to stop him, just get the others out of his way. But even that evasive tactic was out of the question for the first twenty minutes or so because he had brought presents with him. Or rather, he had brought the presents that the gang had requested of him that they couldn't buy themselves or had needed him to fabricate. This gave him license to monopolize each of their time for a bit.

 

"Jim Barnes! There you are. I've been dreaming about this arm of yours, Robocop. Now we get a chance to chat. Come here, I've got your gifts."

 

Bucky had been avoiding Stark, staying glued to Natasha or Steve's side, but he was the last of the group for one on ones and his time skirting him was up. Stark somehow, despite the five inches or so height difference, threw and arm around Bucky's shoulder and walked him off to the back room. Bucky supposed it was supposed to be Clint's bedroom, but seeing as there was no bed that was still up in the air.

 

"Mr. Stark, thank you for helping me with these." Bucky slipped out of the strange and, in his opinion, out of place physical contact. Held out his hand to shake Stark's instead. "And for your other supplies before. We appreciated it."

 

"Yeah, yeah, not a problem." Stark shook his hand but pulled a face like Bucky had reminded him of something unpleasant. "You even talk like Steve. Don't--don't even mention it. Listen, I've been thinking about this. You, me, my workshop. I build you a new arm. Or at least bring this one up to this century's tech. Then, I bring you into the Tower. Got a room for you and everything. The more, the merrier and I could always use extra muscle in case some of our other tenants get a little out of line, if you know what I mean. Modest Mouse in the other room is all fine and dandy so long as he keeps a cool head but when he goes green it's not pretty. I bet you could help with that sort of thing. You're a supersoldier like Cap, right? Got a special serum too?" The rate of speech coming out of this little man was frankly astonishing. "And then the arm. Yeah, I bet you could hold your own, plus you're like a master assassin. With the guns and all that? You could tranq him in the eye, if that'd work. Haven't tried that yet…"

 

Bucky swept a hand through his hair and took a step back. Was he inviting him into the Avengers? Or just hiring him as a bodyguard? Surely Steve had already spoken to him about these things. What was his end game? "I'll honor our agreement, Mr. Stark--"

 

"Tony, call me Tony."

 

"--uh, Tony, to come in so you can study my arm in exchange for all the help you've given. But I--"

 

"Good, now don't make your mind up now about the rest. We'll talk about it more when you come in. Here, knives. These are made with an adamantium alloy . You'll never bend or scratch these, though if somehow you manage to dull them, you'll have to bring them in to sharpen the blades. Though, that won't be a problem when you're already living there--"

 

"Tony. There you are." Ms. Potts stepped inside the room, glaring at Stark before giving Bucky a warm smile. "I'm sorry, Bucky. Tony forgets himself when he's excited." She grabbed Stark by the elbow and escorted him towards the door.

 

"Oh, are we going somewhere, Pep?"

 

"No," she replied, voice tight. "Just back out front to the party." She flashed Bucky one more smile, "we'll see you out there, Bucky. … Did I not tell you, did Steve and Natasha and literally everyone else not tell you _not_ to try to bulldoze over Barnes? You can't fast talk your way with him. He's just as clever as Steve and far more dang…" Her voice faded out beyond the door into the noise of the rest of the party.

 

Bucky had never been more appreciative of an interruption to a conversation before. He hadn't been worried about hurting Stark. He just hadn't wanted to spend another second being talked at. He stood for a moment, recovering from that ordeal and then checked out the gifts. For being an ass, Stark truly did amazing work. The knives were pieces of art, engraved as requested and beautifully weighted. Ow. And sharp too. He stowed them back in their black silk bag and headed out the door into the party slash strategy meeting.

 

At the moment it was more strategy meeting slash pizza eating contest. Clint and Sam were shoveling pizza into their faces, possibly to avoid participating the vastly less light-hearted discussion happening among the others. Ms. Potts and Dr. Banner sat quietly on the sidelines exchanging glances, but everyone else was in the heat of it. Steve was the one talking when Bucky stepped out.

 

"…understand that there were going to be repercussions for the escapade at the university, but we spoke, Tony. You said you would take care of it. This? This is not taking care of it. Thank God we got out of D.C. when we did! Were you not going to warn us?"

 

"Okay. Whoa, Spangles. Remove the wadded panties from your sphincter and then let's have an adult conversation. _I_ said I would do what I could to keep this out of the media's clutches for as long as I could. I did what I could. You guys made a big whopping mess out there, people tend to notice those sort of things."

 

Bucky elbowed his way into the discussion, pizza in hand. Steve was about on top of Stark but the little fucker hadn't taken a single step back. He merely glared right up at Steve. They were both gesturing to the television, which, as soon as Bucky saw it made a lot of sense. The headline read: _Soviet Assassin Turned Stateside Vigilante? Winter Soldier: One More Thing Unearthed from SHIELD's Downfall._ It played over the bottom of the screen again and again below blue and orange faces discussing the rescue at the graduation. As he watched they also flashed interviewed students as well as photos of Bucky as the 'Night Raider' side by side with the Winter Soldier. It was the media firestorm they had expected, right down to the discussion of Captain America, Black Widow, Hawkeye, and Falcon's involvement and the implications of that that cropped up now and again.

 

"…knew that! That would be why we contacted _you_. We thought you, with your endless resources and ability to get whatever you want, would be able to take care of this."

 

Maria Hill stepped up just then, surprisingly in front of Stark. "Rogers, be sensible. You contacted Stark for his security services. He's working in the private sector by private sector law codes. He couldn't just make the situation disappear, which is essentially what you were asking of him. If you'd wanted a magic show, you should've contacted Stephen Strange."

 

"No. No, don't do that." Stark nodded to Hill but stepped right back up to the plate. "He doesn't appreciate you doing that. Trust me. I don't think he gets humor. But, Steve, seriously. The team I sent was top bill, Hill here oversaw the logistics. They did everything they could while still going through the proper channels. It's those channels, freedom of the press etc. that got in the way of keeping this hush-hushed. Your man was going to get news time either way. At least this way it'll be curbed some by it being the holiday season. It'll cool off quickly, I'm sure."

 

" _You're_ sure? You're a media darling. They love you and when they don't, they love to hate you but it pays off for you. Bucky? He's going to get nothing but flack for this. I--I don't… damn."

 

Bucky stepped up and put a hand on Steve's shoulder. "It's alright, pal. I can live through this. Been through a hell of a lot worse. Some bad press is just a hiccup."

 

"Uh…" Dr. Banner cleared his throat and suddenly the volume on the television was raised. "I'd like to note, before the screaming match starts again, that the press may not be all bad. Look at that… Oh, and Clint, you know that you can repair that screen? Just requires a few basic replacements parts."

 

"Meh. I don't mind the blue and orange. What's going on now?"

 

"Essentially, it appears that the media set out to demonize our friend James here and has entirely failed in their attempts. Their interviewees are only speaking of him in the highest regard."

 

"And they finally got that he's the Winter Soldier and that the Winter Soldier was the Night Raider." Natasha sighed her palpable relief.

 

"I think that's thanks to a certain Jessica Jones." Ms. Potts tapped Natasha and pointed to the screen where 'J. Jones' was giving a rather loud interview on the topic.

 

"Well, then somebody's getting a fruit basket."

 

"Okay." Steve's voice was many decibels calmer. "The situation is not dire. Things are under control more or less on the media end of things. Apologies, Tony."

 

"You're forgiven."

 

Steve rankled at the tone but continued, "that just leaves our own plans. What are we going to do as individuals, private individuals in the private sector? I believe I can withstand the backlash on my own as Captain America, but that would have to be on my own." He looked over at Bucky and Sam. "The wake of that backlash would probably be too much for others, reputation, privacy-wise."

 

"That's fine, Steve. I never planned on leeching off you forever anyways." Bucky nodded. "I'll make my own way."

 

Sam nodded as well. "I'm not a barnacle on the U.S.S. Steve. I can get a place, work at the VA. I'll be golden."

 

"Alright. For the time being, until the fallout from this current media strike blows over we should probably lay low. Then we can move on, find other places to live… jobs."

 

"Well, I've got the easiest answer to that," Stark butted in. "You live in the Tower, you go on Avengers payroll. No jobs. No house search. Done and done."

 

"Not now, Tony," Steve grumbled back and Stark threw up his hands.

 

"Just tryin' to help!"

 

Steve rolled his eyes and Natasha stepped forward. "We know, Stark. We know. And we all appreciate it, as invasive as it comes off. Now, the national atmosphere for our types isn't great. We need to coast along on this 'university saviors' wave but not provoke any more. They know what we want them to know: we're back, we're active, but we're not aggressive. Captain America is on the East Coast again. Hawkeye's back on the gang wars. Falcon and Winter Soldier are official associates of Captain America and other Avengers. We all are against HYDRA. That's perfect. Bucky, whatever you choose to do, the bed is made for you. You just need to keep it tidy, yes?"

 

"I agree. I'll keep quietly dismantling HYDRA as I pursue my to-do list. No muss, no fuss."

 

"Good, just inconspicuously keep adding tallies to the 'good guy' side of things. Your reputation will catch up. Sam? What's the plan?"

 

"Oh. Uh…" He shifted a little, set aside his putty-plate of pizza. "Well, VA work. And for the Falcon… I thought I'd be a retainer… like Steve mentioned. Maybe a little Avengers action now and then?"

 

Stark beamed. "You got it. You're on the list. I'm happy to help budding new superheroes, especially those so stunningly employing my tech." He laughed and turned to Pepper. "That's two stars for today. Altruism and relationship-building."

 

"Yes, you get two stars," Ms. Potts replied patiently.

 

"Ha, I'm supernanny. Literal supernanny: I take care of superheroes. I love it. I should make a shirt. Phil would've loved that joke… and a shirt." He sobered and sat down for the first time on the couch beside Clint.

 

"There, there, Starky. Have some pizza."

 

"Thanks, Archie."

 

Clint rolled his eyes. "Just don't get it on your suit. Assface." He marched off leaving space for Sam to sit and proceed to boast Stark's ear off. Or so Bucky thought things would go. In reality, Stark could keep up with Sam. They'd met each their match. Clint appeared at Bucky's right, as he and Steve were watching in amazement, and stole a slice of pizza. "He's such a bag of dicks, but he's useful to have around."

 

"Sure seems that way. Does he ever shut up?"

 

"When he's working. Sometimes. The yapping is a defense mechanism, like a small, pampered dog that craves attention. Anyhow, you two good? Need anything. I'm being a host, look at me."

 

"No, I'm fine, Clint. Thank you."

 

"Welcome," Clint saluted at Steve and then turned towards the kitchen again. Bucky followed.

 

"Clint, can I ask you something?"

 

"What? Sure, Buck, what's up?" There was a weird seriousness between them and a bit of discomfort. He cleared his throat and then decided he'd ask when that blew over.

 

"I'll be with you in the kitchen in a minute. Just one thing…" Luckily, Dr. Banner was nearby, sitting with Natasha. "Uh, Dr. Banner?"

 

"Yes, James? Bucky? What do _you_ prefer to be called, by the way?" He gestured to the lawn chair next to him and Bucky sat.

 

"Uh, Bucky, I suppose. Question: with… with your psychological condition do you find living around people helps or hurts?"

 

Banner smiled softly and pushed his glasses up into his hair. "Well, at first, I thought it was an unnecessary risk and a selfish one at that. But, I think if you find the right fellows and the right environment it can help you stay on the level. Are you thinking of continuing with a roommate situation? I'm sure Tony would be glad to host you, though… ha, I'm not lsure that would be the ideal living situation for you. You seem like you enjoy the quieter life."

 

"You'd be right there, Doctor, but thanks. Just what I needed."

 

"Call me Bruce, and I'm happy to help. With anything!"

 

Bucky returned the doctor's smile, as well as the little smirk from Natasha sitting beside him, and then headed back towards the kitchen. Yup. He'd made his decision, this seemed like the right idea. Now to sell Clint on it. The archer was sitting on his countertop picking pepperoni off one of the pizzas and tossing it to Lucky and Wobbles. They were circling him like sharks, it made Bucky chuckle.

 

"I know I'm going to regret this later, they're going to puke everywhere, but look how happy they are."

 

Bucky shrugged. "I don't see a problem with it, but when we had a dog when I was growing up it only ate table scraps." He leaned against the counter and began picking off slices to hand to Clint. "But then again, dogs weren't that healthy back then either…"

 

"Yeah, you're right. I'll stop." He wiped clean his hands and swiveled on the counter. "Now, what was it you needed to ask?"

 

"A favor." He realized too late his hand was still greasy from the pepperoni. His usual fidgeting move betrayed him, and left him with slicked back hair. Shaking his head, Bucky accepted a paper towel from Clint.

 

"I'll do what I can. What'cha got?"

 

"Uh, well, first thanks for letting us bunk down here to begin with. Really generous of you."

 

"Meh. Just a ceiling and four walls. And it's nice to have some company for once." Clint was fidgeting as well, spinning a fletching-less arrow shaft he'd found in a drawer and eyeing his coffee pot.

 

"Well, thanks anyways. And I'm glad you're so good with it because… uh…" Turned out, it was awkward to ask another grown man if he could live with him. Bucky could feel himself sweating. Sure, he could kill a man ruthlessly without a thought but asking a domestic-like favor turned his stomach.

 

Clint looked over, brow quirked. "You alright? You look like you're gonna rowlf."

 

"I'm fine. Just socially inept." The hand went through the hair again, came out feeling slimy. Bucky growled. "Goddamnit. Forget it. This is too difficult."

 

Something hit him in the back of the head as Bucky walked away. It was the arrow shaft. Clint was filling up the pot for coffee. "You need some place to live?"

 

"Yes," Bucky sighed, relieved and ashamed.

 

"Ah, just out with it and ask. No big deal. You can stay here. It's a dump though." He snorted and put the coffee on. "But, you know, makes sense. Two expert marksmen with crappy reputations and little to no social skills. Why not? Here. You can apply by helping me go through the mail." He opened a drawer literally overflowing with envelopes. "Most of these are bills. Just ignore them. It's death threats I'm looking for. The return addresses are usually good places to start on dead nights."

 

Bucky scoffed, taking an armful from the drawer and leaning back to start sorting through them. Clint was right. Most of them were bills. "How do you still have utilities?"

 

"Oh, I have a couple of deals with a couple of people at a couple of places. Did some some favors, others some others." He split open an envelope and frowned. "Found one. Great, they're mailing me shit now. Literal shit. Oop, but there's a letter. A shit-covered letter with it. And… and I can't read that. Can you read that?"

 

Bucky took the corner of the paper and squinted at it. "Oh, yeah. A little. It's like Russian, a bit. Here… uh, it says something about the dog shit being from your dog. And that you should eat said shit, American… hawk pig? Maybe? … Also… something about forcing you out of here. I'm not sure about some of this. It's definitely not Russian. See, those words? No clue. And I'm not sure about that verb… maybe it's not 'force'. Oh, yeah… probably not. That's… graphic. Who are these people?"

 

Clint took back the letter and dumped it with the envelope of shit into the garbage. "Oh, just the gang that owns the whole area except this building which I bought out from under them. The usual."

 

"Ah, a project," Bucky grinned. "Fun."

 

Clint looked up from knuckling his eyes. "Yeah, fun. Sure. That's it, you passed. You can stay," he sighed, patting Bucky on the back and drinking directly from the near-boiling pot of coffee. "Woo. Ah. Y--You'll help me with my pest problem. Ouch. That's really fuckin' hot."

 

Bucky handed him a mug of water and a paper towel for the spill down his front, then wandered off, back to Steve who was currently enduring a Stark story-time while wearing the single most bedraggled look Bucky had seen in a long time.

 

"…this guy right here running around on a freeway with his Tarzan hair and his sweet cyborg arm wreaking havoc, and I'm like, whatever, it's D.C., Capsicle's got this. And then, all of a sudden, I look up--"

 

"It was actually the next day, Tony. You just didn't realize it because you were caught up in the AI project."

 

"Okay, fine, Bruce. It was the next day. I look up and I've got about twenty alarms blaring, JARVIS talking at me about satellite targeting, and what does Mr. Zen over here say when I go to suit up? 'Just relax, Tony. I'm sure, the Captain has it all under control. Let him take care of it.' Just like that, cool as a cucumber when we've got the big guns trained to our heads literally seconds from blowing them off. I don't know about you, but I like my head where it's at."

 

"You and hundreds of thousands of other people, but this was Steve's call, Tony. And he pulled through, just like I said he would."

 

"Yeah, cut it a little close for my taste. But, of course, our perfect man, the Sentinel of Liberty and acting Man-Boy Scout leader pulled it off. And he got his defrosted Jason Bourne buddy back. And he tamed the Widow into domesticity. All that crap, because he's Cap! He can do anything! And that was why the old man was so up your ass, Steve. You're the original superhero. Now you've got a couple of sidekicks, complete with dark and twisty backstories. I'm jealous. I want a mysterious sidekick. Bruce, will you be my morally conflicted sidekick?"

 

"I think Col. Rhodes is technically already you're 'sidekick' if anyone was going to be that. Though, in your situation--"

 

"I'm the one with the dark and twisty backstory. I know. I'm Batman."

 

Bucky had been keeping up with the flurry of snark and quips to an extent, but as Stark charged right on into another monologue on his tragic backstory. He had to take a break. Beside him, Steve had sunk as far into the couch as could be achieved and was twiddling his fingers, like he was antsy. Probably dying to sketch Stark as a poodle or something.

 

"Not part of the Stark fan club?" He asked, already knowing the answer.

 

Steve stopped fidgeting and gave Bucky his 'let's not joke about it' face. "He's a good man underneath and I respect him, but it's hard to remember that when he opens his mouth."

 

Sam, who had been hanging on Stark's every word a few steps away, must have caught wind of Steve's response and flopped down on Bucky's other side. He was laughing at one of Stark's jokes as he put in his two cents. "Are you kidding me?! Stark is a great time."

 

"He's not as funny as he thinks he is. There is a time when irreverent gets to be too much. Though he is, admittedly, an excellent Santa Claus," Steve sighed. "Did you get him to pick up gifts for you, Buck? Or are you giving us all… uh… scarfs?"

 

That earned a laugh, one out of time with Stark's story and therefore a few curious looks. Bucky responded more quietly, "No. The blob scarf will take up its new life as a potholder and I will stick to only knitting for therapy. I foresee many potholders in the future. Not gifts. Those I did get from Stark."

 

Steve chuckled and looked relieved. Who could blame him? He wasn't a good liar and not even a person as fundamentally good-natured as Steve could receive the blob scarf as a gift and look genuinely pleased with it. "So, have you found a replacement for me?" He nodded towards the kitchen where Clint was still trying, and failing, to function as a competent human being. "Had a good heart to heart? Bonded?"

 

"Are you jealous?"

 

"Me? Jealous? No."

 

"Well, I mean, Stark said it. You did put an awful lot of effort into getting me refurbed. And now Barton's going to stumble in and benefit from all your work."

 

"I did that for your benefit, you jerk, not mine." Steve shook his head. "But he is replacing me?"

 

Bucky scoffed, "no, stupid. Not a replacement. Sure, he's as careless and thick-headed as you are, but I'll still be checking in on you. You don't get off that easy."

 

"What a relief," Steve sassed right back.

 

"You two," Sam said beside them, somewhat forgotten in the banter. "Like an old married couple…"

 

At about that moment Clint succeeded in finally making it out of the kitchen and popped up on the back of the couch behind them. He'd also managed that while carrying two mugs of coffee and the pot. Incredible.

 

"Want some?" He perched there, handing over the mugs to Bucky and Sam, keeping the pot for himself. Steve had declined entirely. "So, you spreading the news, Buchanan? We're going to be roommates in self-loathing, conflicted pasts, and shooting excellence."

 

Sam laughed, "you two? Living together? That's it, I'm getting a place off the island."

 

"No," Steve said, speaking softly but using his official voice. "I think it's a good plan. Clint, you're off the grid but in the loop. We can keep Bucky in the know without drawing any attention to him. It's kind of perfect."

 

"I don't know. I see this going really poorly, like five alarm fire, seven people dead poorly."

 

Bucky shrugged off Sam's joking punch. "I'm in control," he sighed, his mood a little dampened by the harshness or reality of Sam's assessment. "For the most part. And Clint's not a complete moron. And if both those assessments prove unreliable, he's got tranqs. We know for sure that he knows what to do with those and hopefully he won't provoke me."

 

"Not on purpose. Oh, but we will be having regular competitions to see who's really the better shot."

 

"Sure, like it's a contest," Bucky scoffed.

 

Clint scoffed as well, "yeah, well… we'll see. And when we do and we also see that that's an enormous mistake, and everything goes sour, and we fuck it up here, we can run and hide at my farm."

 

"I mean, with a case like mine, there's no ideal place to keep me to… to absolutely _ensure_ that th--the _abominable snowman_ doesn't escape and kill people, except the middle of nowhere. And Dr. Banner said that that doesn't always work either, and he would know. So, at least with Clint it's a controlled situation with the most favorable variables and--wait. Did you say you have a farm?"

 

He turned to Clint who just shrugged. "I could have a farm."

 

Steve had listened with face closed and arms crossed until then. But now he smiled and patted Bucky on the back. "Good. Again, I like this plan. And I'll be close. We can have dinner every other day."

 

"Works for me," Clint said. "You're paying."

 

"Sure, now…" Steve rolled his eyes as the volume of Stark's never-ending narration went up yet again. "If only we could just get through this holiday season with Tony on mute."

 

Bucky agreed. As did Clint, verbally. "No shit."

 

They listened to Stark yammer for a few more minutes before being forced to cede the floor to Ms. Potts who had a very reasonable tirade to give over what constituted 'normal' Christmas gifts. Bucky figured there was some background to their little spat there. Perhaps something to do with custom made stuffed animals. All the while he and Steve watched Natasha carry on a completely nonverbal conversation with Clint. The two of them couldn't decipher the context but it ended with Natasha getting up and sauntering towards them. She was carrying a small white envelope Bucky hadn't noticed before and wearing a smirk that he definitely had as she wedged herself between him and Steve, rested her head on Clint's knees.

 

"I hear you four were conspiring over here. Have a plan to shush the lippy mechanic?" Apparently eye flashes, lip shrugs and brow quirks were a full language in Barton and Tasha's hands. And he'd been using them to tattle.

 

Sam leaned over then, lips pursed and shaking his head incredulously. "Dude, Nat, ignore them. They got nothing to be complaining about. Stark is seriously entertaining."

 

"Jury's out on that matter," Steve elaborated diplomatically. "But we have made our plans for setting loose our brave little soldier here out into the world. Bucky's going to live here with Clint."

 

Natasha glanced between them, green eyes glinting. After a beat enjoying something she didn't let them in on, she patted them both on the knee and chuckled. "I couldn't have suggested a stupider idea… but I think it's the right choice. You still have to intern at the Tower, James. Get to know the other people you'll be working with eventually. And socialize. That's important, especially with you misplaced-in-time types."

 

Bucky put his arm around her, thumping Steve on the back of the head as he did for the 'brave little soldier' comment. "And what'll you be doing Ms. Romanova?"

 

"Oh, I'll be in the wind. Where I like to be."

 

Clint took a break from braiding pieces of her hair to lean over and show them his skepticism. "In the wind? No. Every time you say you'll be in the wind, you mean getting purposefully into trouble. Next thing we'll know, you'll be hanging by a thread, smashing through the window 'cause you need something."

 

"Possibly. Are you complaining?"

 

Clint leaned back, his breezy self again. "Nope. Just strive for accuracy."

 

"That's what I thought. But, for now, I'm going to be spending through the New Year here, with you all. Thought I'd start one off right for once."

 

Steve nodded, about to speak, but had to pause as Stark delivered his saucy punch line and Sam guffawed their eardrums out of commission momentarily. He was shaking his head when he finally could get a word in audibly. "You mean start one off keeping us from starting a fight with Tony."

 

"Well, maybe Barnes and Barton, but you won't be there. Not the night of, I don't think."

 

Steve scrunched up at her comment, looking confused with more than just his face. "What?"

 

Natasha handed him the envelope she'd been tapping against her leg. "See for yourself. Sorry, I took a peek, but…I couldn't help it. Intelligence is what I do, privacy is just an illusion." She grinned as Steve rolled his eyes and then leaned her head back against Clint's knees again. "So, are you two ready to room together?" She asked, patting Bucky's knee. "No matter what, we need to get you some things… well, any things. Maybe beds, to start with?"

 

Clint snorted. "We'll figure it out, Tasha."

 

"Yeah, I believe you told us yesterday you are nobody's mom."

 

Rolling her head to get a better look at Bucky, Nat pursed her lips. The smile stuck around in her eyes though. "I did say that, but without me you two together would be hopeless. Speaking of…" Upright again, she leaned towards him and peered at his the top of his head. "What in the world did you do to your hair, James?"

 

"He got uncomfortable and smeared pepperoni grease through it," Clint answered for him.

 

"I can see that. And I assume that's what happened to your shirt as well, Clint?"

 

It was a moment before she got a response, probably taken up by Clint discovering whatever mess Natasha was pointing out for the first time. "Oh, that? No, that's coffee. Guess I spilt it down my front when I was drinking from the pot."

 

"Charming," Natasha muttered, swallowing a grin and reaching for a napkin. "Hold still." She dipped that napkin in Steve's water, currently forgotten in his hand, and began ruffling it through Bucky's hair. He fought the urge to squirm out of her reach successfully but failed to keep still when Sam started laughing at him. With a helping kick from Clint, Bucky shoved him off the couch but didn't stop him from laughing. And pointing.

 

Natasha kept on like nothing had happened. "So, Steve, what so you think?"

 

Bucky glanced over at his friend in time to see him flush cherry red. Classic.

 

"I… uh… well… yes. Sharon and no Stark. Seems pretty… well, it's a win-win, isn't it?" He turned the card over in his hand a few times. "Well, win-win-lose. Sorry, Buck. The lose is for you. I'm abandoning you, it looks like, to the Stark party."

 

The card appeared over Natasha's shoulder. Bucky took it carefully. "Oh, well now. Don't you apologize to me," he said, flipping the CIA New Year's party invitation over and reading the looping scrawl on the back. _Will you be my +1? -Sharon._ It made him smile. "You need a suit." At long last somebody was going to show Steve a good time again, somebody worth his nervousness and sweating and stuttering. He deserved that.

 

From the ground, completely unfazed by being removed from the couch, Sam snatched the card from Bucky's hand. "A swanky suit."

 

"We'll all need penguin suits," Clint grumbled. "Party at Stark Tower--Avengers' Tower, whatever, will be stupid black tie." He was taking soggy pieces of the napkin from Natasha's hand and shooting them into Stark's hair. Across the room, Dr. Banner was frowning in the most amused way possible and Ms. Potts had covered her face in her hands. Maria Hill was downright smirking. Only Stark had failed to notice.

 

Before he could, Natasha removed Clint's ballistic source and began instead smoothing Bucky's hair back into its part. He tried to focus on something besides her fingers against his scalp as she answered Clint's concerns. "Don't worry, you two. I'll steal a quinjet. We'll have one cocktail and be out of there. In and out."

 

She sat back in her spot, squeezed between Steve and Bucky, and raised her putty-cup. Across the room Pepper did the same and added a wink.  

"And now that I think of it, someone has to save Steve and Sharon from the drudgery of a government party." She'd kept talking as Bucky had had his moron moment. "Like I already said, I want to start the year off right for once. That means with friends, doing something we want to do."

 

"Which is?" Sam asked incredulously, trying to return to the couch finally.

 

"I don't know… depends on who's starring on my police scanner."

 

"Alright, alright," Steve said, smiling and for once without that miserable furrow between his brows. Bucky focused on that instead, that Steve was happy. "Fair plan."

 

"Yeah," Clint agreed, dropping off the back of the couch and thwarting Sam's return to his seat again with another kick. "I like that kinda suit much better."

 

"We all do, Barton. They're more 'us.'"

 

Bucky nodded along with Natasha, about to add his own two cents in, but was caught off guard by the conversational turn the other group had taken. Stark sounded contrite. That held everyone’s attention.

 

“--Looks bad at the front end but it turns out, this is what I do, I see what things could be and effect their potential. Anyway, the worst was with one of these munitions guys, smart guy, scientist with a knack for pulsar tech. He was the mind behind this place, and recently came into the ownership, family thing. Sean Williams it was, I think. Poor guy, didn't realize what I was doing, thought it was a hostile takeover when I started buying him out. I was saving him, though--"

 

"I'm going to stop you there, Tony." Bruce took off his glasses and set them on the table. "Because you're embarrassing yourself. The man's name was _Simon_ Williams, and you were taking over his company hostilely, that's what happens when you buy it out from under a person. Don't act like you were just pretending to be a prick."

 

"Yeah, okay, but I had the best intentions."

 

Bucky laughed with everyone else at Banner calling Stark out, looking around to share Steve's inevitable amusement. But he couldn't find him.

 

"I was saving him from himself, you see. I had to buy it out from under him so he wouldn't drive the thing into the ground. He was doing all kinds of shady things on the side to keep it and his brother afloat. It was only going to ruin this great company and product and lab his father had built."

 

After a quick scan of the room, he found him, predictably alone by the window. He looked pretty damn pensive. Forfeiting his seat to Sam, Bucky stood to join him.

 

"There are better ways to do that, Tony, without ruining a man. It destroyed him, he completely disappeared."

 

"Not before throwing a big, publicity fit in my office. I was going to tell him what I'd been doing, but he wouldn't listen. He tried to shoot me."

 

"He thought his life was over."

 

"I felt bad about it… I stopped the slash and burn business rescuing after that. Not even maintaining the bought out businesses' reputations is worth risking that level of misunderstanding again."

 

"It was just because you don't think about the consequences your actions have on other people if you see the end result is big picture positive."

 

As Bucky joined Steve at the window he found him more than pensive, he was melancholy. Something was bothering him, the world was weighing especially heavy maybe. Bucky decided a mild ribbing was in order.

 

"You going to be alright," he asked, bumping him in the shoulder, "not having me 'round to angst over anymore?"

 

Steve broke from staring down some great beyond, spared Bucky a side glance. Then a begrudging smile and a shake of the head. "No. I'll be fine, Buck."

 

"No, you'll find something else," Bucky mumbled and then happied up his tone. "What's eating at you, then?"

 

"Eating?" He looked actually confused. Hadn't really been listening. When things clicked into place, he had the courtesy to pretend to be fine. "Oh, nothing's eating at me, Buck. Swear. See?" He grinned again, looking no less dour. He was a horrible liar. "I'm peachy. Just taking it all in, saying my thanks. It… it worked out, like I believed it would. I'm grateful." And feeling guilty about spending so much time on something personal that would make him happy, no doubt, instead of helping some dozen of the thousands that could've used his assistance. Bucky knew that feeling, it hid in the creases in Steve's brow. He chose to ignore it. No point beating your head against a brick wall, there was no budging Steve from righteous self-flagellation.  

 

"Of course it worked out, Steve. You set your mind on it. You're stubborn like a dog with an old bone. Either it was gonna work out or you were gonna die tryin' to make it."  

Another smile, a trademark. The ole head shake and chin drop. He was looking at his shoes when he replied. "I'd'a gotten by."

 

"Like always."

 

Steve bumped him back finally. "Yeah. Like always. … But, now we can do more. God, I… I almost can't believe it actually happened, that I can stand here and say to you, of all people, that things are going to settle into something normal…"

 

"Normal on some level, yep."

 

"I never dreamed that that could even be a possibility, and now… normal. Well, maybe normal isn't the right word. The world's anything but normal."

 

"Well, it's more normal, by my definition, than it has been in a long time. We're both here, doing what we should do and, significantly for me, by our own choice. Even better, we've got friends set on doing the same along with us. I'd like that to be the normal I judge everything else by."

 

"Yeah… yeah, that's true." Steve nodded hard but returned to inspecting his toes. Something was still up. "And that's good, but are _you_ going to be okay without--"

 

"Without you, Steve?" Bucky couldn't stop from grinning. "Yeah, I think I'll make it. Like you'll leave me be long enough to actually find out, but yeah. We're both here, like I said, together in this."

 

"And if--"

 

"Let's not 'and if' right now. You know my stance: till the end of the line. No matter what, okay?" It just felt right to clap a hand on Steve's shoulder, give it a reassuring squeeze.

 

"No matter what. I know. I know. Now more than ever. So… gifts?" Bucky knew the coast was clear when Steve started babbling. It was the quiet, brooding Steve that he had to watch out for; that one was liable to do crazy shit. "I know it's early, and we're in the middle of a party, and probably not appropriate since I don't have everyone else's, but I think you'll like this…"

 

He blathered on about money and this being financially irresponsible considering the rest of the world until the confliction popped back up in between his brows and Bucky had to talk him down. It was funny, seeing him like this. Steve could have an ethical dilemma about just about anything because he lived in the ideal and the world was a place of… well, not the ideal. He still managed though.

 

"Well, they're baseball tickets. Season passes actually. Dodgers don't even play on this side of the country anymore, but I figured Yankees are better than nothing."

 

"Barely."

 

"Barely," Steve chuckled back. "You and I, doing something normal. Plan on it."

 

"Wouldn't miss it." Bucky took the tickets and turned them over in his hands. "Yours is over there. Not wrapped or anything. Kinda pales in comparison to this."

 

The bastard actually looked relieved at that. "Not a problem. Just glad you like 'em."

 

"Yeah, yeah." He waved Steve off and marched over to the bag Stark had left him with, pulled out the one marked especially for Steve. Punk got him something thoughtful and from their past, something they could enjoy like old times together, and what'd Bucky get him? A stupid engraved knife. Showed a lot about him. Maybe he could just blame HYDRA.

 

As he thought about ways he could spin this gift to seem a little less shitty, the miracle of that particular dilemma hit him. He paused, mid-stride, and looked around. He was in the middle of a group of people, in a party, unwatched, holding a highly deadly weapon, at least in his hands, and nobody was even blinking an eye at that. He was a non-threat, walking to his best friend, fretting over the quality of the gift he'd gotten him. That was all.

 

What a long way from the first time he'd seen Steve again that century. What a long way from feeling his brain skip like a scratched record at the sound of his own name. How far from cold, calculating rage. How different, how infinitely bigger than assessing strategic approach, determining target trajectory and vulnerabilities. The knife in his hand was a gift, not a weapon. The people around him were friends, not targets or handlers. Or collateral damage. They had names and knew his. And cared about him, like he did them. There was no one in his head but him and his scattered regrets. No conditioning, no drugs. Just Bucky Barnes. In control of himself, of his own future.

 

Steve had had it right just before, being solemn about being thankful. This was a god damn miracle. And who was he to thank for it? Well, sure, Natasha and Sam, and Clint in his own way, and Hill and the rest. But Steve. Now, he would never take the credit. Never. But Bucky'd be damned and gone to hell twice over if it weren't for him. He saved him, just like he'd promised.

 

"Now, I know that deadly force is not your thing, but this is damn sight better as a tactical tool than that other shit you keep on that belt of yours." Bucky flipped the knife and handed it to Steve, handle first.

 

Steve lit up when he saw it. Punk was such a good guy, he genuinely appreciated even crappy gifts. "It's a marvel, Buck. Thank you!" He somehow grinned even bigger reading the inscription. "Thanks, punk? Well, you're welcome, jerk."

 

He looped Bucky into a shoulder crushing hug. The fact that it made his left side sear, the flesh and metal grinding together, didn't even burst the bubble. He'd deal with that pain, he'd deal with everything. Because Steve had given him a gift no knife could equal, and that wasn't even the baseball tickets. He'd given him his life back. And you could be damn certain he was going to make the best of it. He might not ever be able to repay Steve, but he could sure as hell prove to him that there were some decisions of his he didn't need to feel conflicted about. Things he'd done he could be unequivocally proud of. Bucky was going to take this second chance and give it everything he had.

 

Till the end of the line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's all, folks! I honestly can't believe any of you stuck around for the whole thing. It's, like, over two-hundred thousand words long. That's ridiculous. But I love that you did and that you commented and left kudos and all that jazz. It always made my day.
> 
> There is a possibility -- read 62% chance -- that there might be a series follow-up to this story, the one I mentioned in an end note a few chapters back, with Bucky getting to know all the other Avengers in little bonding sessions. It might be called 'Hazing and Other Welcome Rituals'. It might start with Bucky's wild romp with Tony. It might. We'll see...


End file.
